The Legacy of Callisto Part 3: Palaces of the Mind
by Stayce
Summary: In the aftermath of the massacre in Sparta and the battle at Thermopylae, Callisto lies comatose and trapped within a labyrinth of her own making. As she confronts her own hates and fears, Ithius struggles to lead what remains of the Helots to safety before the Spartans can exterminate them all. Meanwhile, deep in Tartarus, Cronus prepares to put his final endgame into action...
1. Prologue: Meddlesome

**Disclaimer**

First of all, the characters of Callisto, Xena, Gabrielle and any others from the TV shows Xena: Warrior Princess or Hercules: The Legendary Journeys are the property of Universal Pictures, Renaissance Pictures, and other affiliates. This work is intended purely for entertainment and nonprofit purposes, and no copy right infringement is intended.

This story contains some violent themes as well as moderate depictions of violence, (we are talking Callisto here). I have done my best to keep things more suggestive than graphic however. That being said, should you be offended by such things I would suggest you stop reading.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This story is actually going to be a bit of a difficult one. It's the one I've dreaded writing the most as at the close of Part Two, Callisto herself was** SPOILER** out of action** SPOILER.** This means that a chunk of this story will be dealing with the supporting cast while Callisto is on a somewhat different journey (similar to episodes of Xena like Destiny). Needless to say this is a big gamble as it relies on the original characters I've created being able to carry a bit more of the main plot so that Callisto is free to go on a journey of self discovery. Callisto is still at the centre of the stories, but she has an ensemble now.

The idea is to tell a story that will move both Callisto and the supporting characters along and set up the events of the big finale to the Cronus stories in Part Four. Needless to say, this is very much a middle chapter in a trilogy (even though its part three of the series, it is in effect the second part of the core Cronus trilogy of stories). For those of you just joining now, if you want any of this to make sense, I highly advise looking at Part One and Part Two especially. Part Two in is very much required reading to understand what has happened and the state of play going into this, Part Three.

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><p><strong>The Legacy of Callisto<strong>

**Part Three**

**Palaces of the Mind**

"_I had been the author of unalterable evils; and I live in daily fear,_

_lest the monster whom I had created should perpetrate some new wickedness."_

_ Frankenstein_

_ Mary Shelley_

**Prologue: Meddlesome**

There should not have been a breeze on the balcony, but that did not change the fact there was one.

Zeus, the King of all Olympus, leaned forward against the stone balcony rail and gazed out over the scene before him with morbid curiosity as the scorched wind that should not have been washed over him. Distant Tartarus – once little more than a giant fissure ripped in a jagged line across the floor of the seemingly infinite cavern that made up his brother Hades' Underworld – was beginning to spread. Like fracturing ice upon a winter's lake, a long network of ragged tears and ruptured stone was starting to creep inexorably outward, expanding slowly in every direction while each fissure's previously dull red glow had now become a burning, fiery crimson.

From somewhere deep beneath his feet, he could hear the first low rumblings of yet another earthquake, and he tightened his gnarled old fingers grimly around the balcony rail. The black stone of the fortress began to tremble all about him, and a heavy echoing crack sounded clear and strong across the cavern, reaching his ears even as far away as he was. Zeus' eyes narrowed as a fresh fissure split the rock of the cavern floor asunder in a spray of hot magma and roaring columns of flame. For a moment the fire climbed higher and higher, as if it were trying to reach the cavern ceiling high above. Then, in the blink of an eye, it guttered and died, the magma cooling with the same unnatural rapidity. The fissure remained however, and seconds later a fresh gust of hot, dry air washed up and over the balcony once more.

Zeus straightened, still watching the distant glow of Tartarus warily. Behind him he heard the sound of footsteps on stone, although in truth he had felt the others' approach even before he had heard her arrival.

"I thought you told us Hades had him contained," the newcomer said, moving to lean upon the balcony next to him.

He cast her a sideways glance. It was Artemis standing at his side. Her glorious mane of red hair today pulled back in a luxuriant braid and left to hang down across one shoulder. Across her back was slung her hunters' bow, the quiver of shining arrows that accompanied it seeming to glow even in the dim light of the Underworld.

"Trying a new look today are we my dear?" Zeus said with a nod toward her braid.

Artemis gave a soft sigh.

"And you are being evasive as always," she said. "Don't try and dodge the question father."

"I wasn't aware you had even asked me one," Zeus replied.

Artemis gave another sigh, this one more irritated and long suffering.

"You said Hades could keep Cronus trapped down there. Was that true?"

"Were the situation that simple, I have no doubt that it would've been," Zeus said, "but you of all people should know that there are other forces at work in this. My father was never so dull witted as to face a foe directly when there was no need to."

Artemis moved to join him at the balcony rail, leaning forward in a languid fashion that still spoke of readiness and danger.

"And so his little minions go scurrying about their work, while we gaze at our navels, and our own servants struggle to keep pace," she said softly, fixing him with a steady gaze as she followed his line of thought. "Sparta was the turning point wasn't it?"

He turned his gaze back to the vastness of the cavern before him, his eyes now the same colour as storm clouds on a cold winter's evening. He knew that it was not a question that required an answer this time, but he shrugged all the same.

"It was the pivot..." he said, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the balcony rail as he mulled over possibilities in his mind. "...the focal point upon which the balance of this whole conflict was resting..."

"... And now the balance is tilting firmly in Cronus' favour," Artemis said.

Zeus nodded again, for the first time unsure of what to say. Artemis had always been one of the few of his children beyond Hercules that he felt any real affection for, and to hear her sounding so disappointed in him was more than a little sobering.

"And whose fault is that?" came a new voice from behind them.

The two of them turned as one, looking back into the private dining hall that the balcony was a part of. Along the walls, a selection of torches burned fiercely in sconces, yet none of them produced even the faintest hint of smoke or soot, while down the chamber's center ran a heavy table, shaped as one from a chunk of solid obsidian. Like everything else in the fortress it was plain and unadorned, and a number of simple chairs were arrayed along its length. A single seat was located at the far head of the table, only slightly more ostentatious than the rest, with a high back and a small end table at its side.

That seat and end table were both now occupied by a man and helmet respectively. The helmet appeared to be cast of bronze, and curving serpents worked their way from the nose to the nape of the neck. Its owner - the man in the chair - was dark haired and pale faced, with a thin lipped mouth set in a grim expression.

"Hades," Zeus nodded in greeting. "It is good to see you again dear brother. I was beginning to wonder if you had forgotten about our little meeting."

Hades tilted his head at that.

"I hadn't forgotten," he replied, giving a small gesture with his hand toward the balcony at their backs and the Underworld beyond. "I was just somewhat preoccupied, as I'm sure you can see."

Zeus narrowed his eyes as he regarded his older brother carefully. The God of the Underworld was reclining in his seat at the head of the table, seemingly relaxed, but in truth there was more of an exhausted slump to his shoulders than anything else and the heavy dark circles beneath his eyes only served to reinforce it. His cheeks were hollower than they had been previously and the rise and fall of his chest was shallow and occasionally uneven.

"You should've called upon us sooner," Zeus said softly. "How long have you been this way?"

Hades only cocked an eyebrow at Zeus in response before looking past him toward Artemis.

"So he's involved you in all of this?" he said quizzically.

"Not by choice," Artemis said, glancing at Zeus out of the corner of her eye. "I simply put two and two together that something was wrong and then the rest fell into place."

"And only when your own interests were threatened no doubt," Hades said with a dismissive wave of his hand that caused Artemis to visibly bristle.

"If I had known sooner…" she began defensively, but Hades cut her off, rising into an upright position as he spoke.

"If you had known sooner you would have done precisely what you have been doing all this time," he snapped viciously. "Nothing! You and all the rest of our kin, up there on Olympus, safe in the worship of your own devotees, all too ready and willing to forget about me and my realm, to pretend like I am beneath you!"

"I would have not had it be so," Artemis said, her eyes slightly down cast, her tone mollified. "I would have helped."

"Of course you would have," Hades sneered sarcastically at her.

"That's quite enough Hades," Zeus cut in, his voice quiet but strong, like the distant rumble of thunder.

Hades turned his angry glare back to Zeus, and the two of them locked gazes for a moment until, finally, Hades looked away, waving his hand in a gesture of supplication and letting out a long, tired exhale.

"My apologies," he said, although he did not sound particularly apologetic. "I was never the best of hosts, as I'm sure you both remember, and recently I've had even less call to be civil."

He gestured to the unoccupied seats along the length of the table.

"Please," he said. "Sit."

Zeus and Artemis both slid obligingly into chairs opposite one another, Zeus adopting his most confident air, but he could not help but notice how uncomfortable Artemis seemed. She was sitting stiffly in her seat, both hands splayed across the table and perfectly still as Hades regarded them both with a tired and resentful gaze.

"Quite the conspirators we make eh?" Zeus smiled, doing his best to appear jovial and at ease in an attempt to lessen some of the tension in the air. Hades just grunted.

"What about Ares?" Artemis asked.

"What about him?" Zeus replied, a little too sharply, and then crossed himself mentally for having displayed his emotions so brazenly. It would not do for him to be seen as overly emotional.

"He knows too," Artemis said. "Shouldn't we be waiting for him?"

Zeus gritted his teeth. If he could have stopped any of his children from learning about what was truly going on down here in the Underworld, the one he would have chosen above all others would have been Ares. He simply could not trust his most wayward son not to put the interests of them all above his own, but then considering the viper's nest of a family he had been born into, Zeus supposed he could hardly blame him.

"No need to wait on my account," came an irritatingly familiar voice, and in a bright flash, both the God of War and his ornate throne appeared, at the opposite end of the table to Hades. Ares lounged confidently in his seat, his booted feet up and resting on the smooth obsidian surface of the table.

"Speak my name, and I shall appear!" He said, flashing each of them that annoyingly confident smile he had when he thought he had the upper hand.

Zeus tapped a finger to the table, and a powerful arc of energy crackled across its surface to burst in a shower of sparks against the war god's feet. Ares let out a pained yelp and withdrew his boots quickly, glaring daggers at his father as he did so.

"My son," Zeus admonished him with a weary shake of his head. "How many times must I tell you to keep your feet off the furniture?"

Out of the corner of his vision, he caught a glimpse of Artemis trying to stifle a laugh, and for a moment the black mood hanging over the room seemed to lift slightly. Then a slight tremor from Tartarus made the table beneath his fingers shudder, and the mood turned somber once more.

Zeus leaned forward in his seat, his gaze flicking appraisingly across the gods assembled at the table. They were none of them the ideal conspirators he would have chosen. Indeed, had he had the choice, he would have preferred to involve no one but himself.

Hades was dour and grim at the best of times, defiant but also stubborn and inflexible. He saw the world in carefully measured terms, a million different checks and balances, each one cast in black and white. It made him thorough and careful, but also slow and methodical, unable to adapt quickly to those more dynamic than he. It might explain why he had always had such a hard time keeping firebrands like Callisto imprisoned in their deserved afterlives.

Artemis was compassionate and caring, much loved by her many worshipers but that strength was also her weakness. It made her softer than many of her siblings, less hardhearted and cutthroat. It was a weakness that she often refused to admit to herself, and with a potential battle for their very existences looming bleakly on the horizon, nor was it one they could afford to entertain.

Then there was Ares. The God of War was, in many ways, the most unpredictable of all his children. Ares' loyalties were fickle and ever changing. On any given day he could be a staunch ally or a fearsome enemy, but in his apparent unpredictability there was one constant that made him the easiest of all Zeus' children to read. His greatest loyalty was to himself. Every desire he had stemmed from it, and could be tied back to it in turn. For that reason, Zeus knew that despite his reservations about his son's character, in this he could trust him to hold true to them. So long as his own interests were threatened he would remain steadfast.

"Soooo," Zeus began, drumming his fingers impatiently against the table when it became clear no one else was about to speak. "You called us here Hades. Care to enlighten us as to why?"

"I had thought I would just be summoning you," Hades admitted, looking first at Zeus, then flicking his eyes toward Artemis and Ares in turn. "Not half of Olympus."

"Well, half of Olympus you have," Ares interjected smugly. "And a good job too, considering the mess that seems to have been made of things so far!"

"Ares..." Artemis, said, keeping her voice low, but doing little to disguise the hint of warning behind it.

Ares glanced at her then looked to Zeus and Hades. Both were glaring at him darkly.

"Very well then," he said, completely unfazed and leaning back in his chair while he speared Hades with a grim expression of his own. "Why _did_ you call my father here dear Uncle?"

Hades regarded him coldly for a moment longer, then let out a long low sigh and slumped tiredly in his seat.

"Because I do not know how much longer I can hold Cronus unaided," he admitted.

"Thought as much," Ares muttered, but the others ignored him. Instead Artemis leaned forward across the table toward the God of the Underworld.

"So I was right then?" she said. "Sparta was the tipping point?"

"Did our most benevolent King not already tell you that?" Hades replied, shooting Zeus a caustic glance.

"Thermopylae," he continued. "King Leonidas, the Helot massacre, the Spartan Oracle; So many souls and so close together, all crossing the Styx at the same time..." He paused and gave a weary groan, lifting a hand to massage his temples as if they pained him.

Artemis got to her feet and crossed to his side, placing a concerned hand on his shoulder. Hades managed to give the weakest of smiles, but there was no real heart in it. Then he turned back to Zeus, his expression growing darker as he did so.

"It was all I could do to keep him from tearing a hole right through the barrier right then and there. Even now he is clawing his way to the surface of Tartarus, splitting the very fabric of the place apart as he does so."

Zeus sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

"This is hardly news Hades," he said. "I can see as much just by looking out of your window. So I say again, why call me here?"

"Isn't it glaringly obvious!?" Ares said incredulously, surging to his feet as he did so. "We need a new strategy! Your plan is failing father! Callisto was supposed to stop this! She was your chosen champion and where is she now? Lying insensate in some dreary forest cottage somewhere, surrounded by a cowering herd of former slaves and farmhands while Cronus' Followers stand completely unopposed!"

Zeus' expression did not change.

"Your point being?" he said flatly.

"Father please!" Artemis said imploringly. "You know what Ares is saying! It's not too late! We can still change the way this plays out! We have the power to..."

"...to what?" Zeus said, turning his impassive gaze on her. "To intervene? To strike down those Followers with our godly wrath? A poor solution if ever I heard one. After all, didn't you already try that Ares?"

The war god's face fell as he spoke, and a small smile curled at the corners of Zeus' mouth.

"Did you think I did not know my son?" he said chidingly. "Did you really believe me to be so easily fooled? Nothing escapes my notice, least of all your many treacheries, be they big or small."

Artemis and Hades both turned hard eyed stares on Ares.

"What did you do this time?" Hades said, his tone one of complete resignation and one that was not even remotely surprised by Ares' apparent disobedience.

"I... I uh..." Ares paused, speechless for the first time as he struggled to find the best way to admit his actions. "I may have... um... given Callisto a little nudge toward..."

"...The Tomb of Lycurgus, where she was thrown into the Pneuma." Zeus finished for him sharply, then cocked a knowing eyebrow toward Artemis.

"Do you see what happens when I am disobeyed my girl?" he said. "If it weren't for your dear brother over there and his ceaseless meddling, events may have turned out very differently. As it stands now, things happened the way they did because of his interference, and we are left having to pick up the pieces."

"I was just trying..." Ares began.

"And failing!" Zeus snapped at him with all the sudden fury of a thunder clap that made even the God of War wince at the harshness of it. "There is a reason, Ares, why I commanded you..." he looked around the room at the rest of them, "...all of you in fact, not to get involved. It is because, whether you believe it or not, I do actually know what I'm doing."

"Or at least you did," Hades corrected him. "Whatever plans you had concocted brother are no longer any of our concern. We do not have the luxury of contemplating whatever the circumstances might have been; only what they are now." He glanced toward Ares. "As much as I hate to admit it, Ares' point still stands. Callisto _has _failed, and it is long past time we started looking at our other options."

"And what other options would those be?" Artemis said. "The way I see it, we have been left little choice but to involve ourselves more directly and..."

"And if we should fail too? By even the smallest measure?" Zeus countered before she could finish. "Are you all forgetting who our enemy is? This is not some hedge spirit or foreign deity we are battling with. Cronus was the Lord of the Titans, and master over all that was. He had the hearts and minds of our worshipers in his iron grasp long before any of us!"

He regarded both Ares and Artemis with a pained look as he recalled the struggles he and the others like Hades and Poseidon had gone through in the early days of the Titanomachy.

"You were neither of you born my children," he continued, "but we defeated the Titans as much through trickery as strength. The Titans were powerful and the strength of the natural world was theirs to command. In the beginning we had no choice other than to outwit them, and with those early victories, we turned many of their worshipers to us. The more belief came to us, the more we were strengthened and they weakened, and the more the war tipped in our favour."

"The same could easily be true in reverse," Ares added, making this one of the rare occasions he and Zeus had ever seen eye to eye on anything. "If we were to openly involve ourselves, we would be putting our own belief and believers on the line."

"Aren't we already doing that?" Artemis shot back. "You and I have already lost Sparta to them. My temples were desecrated Ares! Your own Oracle was murdered in cold blood! Cronus' Followers turned whole city against us in a matter of weeks!"

"All the more reason to stop them now," Ares said, turning his gaze back to Zeus. "I stand by what I said the first time we discussed this. A line must be drawn in the sand, where we say this far and no further."

Zeus had to fight the urge not to laugh. Were his children really so slow on the uptake that they could not see that that decision had already been made for them? Did They honestly believe that they were in control here? That that had ever even been the case? Theirs was an entrenched position. It was the price they paid for being the dominant gods of Greece. They were exposed and open, while their enemy was hidden and unknowable save for the most basic of intentions. They had been on the back foot from the start, and whether they liked it or not, that looked set to be the way things would continue.

Next to him Zeus could see Hades shaking his head in weary disbelief at the naivety of the younger gods, and a felt a surge of relief. His brother at least understood.

"The line has already been drawn Ares," Hades said. "Cronus will have his Followers march the Spartans North, to the war which that Spartan 'King' of theirs promised them, and what will be lying in their path but..."

Artemis' mouth dropped open.

"...Delphi!" she gasped and Hades nodded.

"The Navel of Gaia," he said. "Where the barrier between my world and the world of the living is already at its thinnest, and once they are there..."

"...why not scalp themselves another Oracle while they're at it?" Ares said darkly. "Maybe Cronus will try and collect the whole set."

"But Delphi is my brother's city!" Artemis said, ignoring Ares' attempts at levity as her voice rose in concern for her twin sibling. "If they are planning to do there what they did to Sparta then Apollo must be..."

"Apollo!?" Ares interrupted. "That stuck up, arrogant, snot nosed little man child? What good would involving him do? He'd be as likely to just hover over the city on that 'board' of his and watch it burn than do anything actually useful. I'd be half tempted to let them wreck the place just so I could see the look on his face when it did."

Artemis tensed.

"That's my brother you're talking about!" she snapped.

"And mine too," Ares retorted with a shrug and a nod toward Zeus. "Thanks to dear old dad here and his many indiscretions, we're all of us related somehow. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

"That's quite enough!" Zeus barked and the two of them fell silent. "I have made my decision and there really is nothing more to be discussed. You will continue exactly as I have instructed; by doing nothing." He eyed the pair of them darkly. "The both of you."

"But Callisto is..." Ares began. Zeus rose easily to his feet and raised his hand, arcs of lightning dancing suggestively between his fingertips

"I have been questioned enough for one day Ares," he said, "and now I am beginning to lose my patience. Callisto has not failed. Not yet at least, and until _I _deem that she has done so, I see no reason to alter my plans simply to suit your capricious whims."

"Then what of Delphi and the..." Artemis started to protest only to be silenced by Hades rising from his seat in a similar manner to Zeus, and giving her a frosty eyed stare.

"Did you not hear what your King said?" he snapped. "This discussion is ended!"

Artemis met his gaze defiantly, but kept her mouth shut. With a loud complaining groan, Hades collapsed back into his chair, one hand again raised to massage his temples again.

"Now begone, the pair of you!" he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You've worn me out with all this bickering, and as I'm sure you will appreciate, I need to keep my strength up at present."

Artemis opened her mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it and snapped it shut again. She turned to look appealingly at Ares who only gave her a 'what can you do?' shrug. She let out a long sigh then turned to face Zeus and Hades.

"Father," she said curtly. "Uncle," and with that, she vanished in a flash as bright and dazzling as sunshine dancing off rippling water.

Ares watched her go, then turned to face Zeus, a strange look on his face as he did so, an emotion Zeus could not quite gauge lurking behind his eyes.

"You may not believe it father," he said, "but I was trying to help when I went to Callisto. I've had more dealings with her than you, and I think I may just know her a little better as a result."

"You don't _know _anyone Ares," Zeus replied. "If you did, you would never have lost Xena."

The muscles in Ares' jaw bunched tightly at the barbed comment.

"Then I hope you're right about Callisto," he said. "I really do, because what's waiting out there, beneath the surface..." he gestured at the window and out over the balcony beyond toward Tartarus, "...will spell the doom of all of us if you're wrong."

With those final words he vanished too, leaving only Zeus and Hades in the chamber.

For long moments everything was silence until finally, Zeus spoke.

"Thank you for that," he said. "Living down here, I don't think you have any idea how willful some of the others can be."

Hades gave a dry snort.

"Do you think they will do as they're told?" he said.

Zeus shrugged.

"Our family has a talent for disobedience," he said.

"I wonder where that could come from," Hades said dryly, then winced as if sudden spike of pain had flared inside his head. Zeus began to move to his side, but Hades waved him back.

"It's nothing," he said. "Just a headache." He lifted his head to fix Zeus with a steady gaze. "Just tell me one thing, and I don't want any of your usual half answers or double speak."

Zeus tilted his head at his brother.

"What is it that you want to hear?" he asked.

"Tell me that what we're doing will work," Hades said, "that you're convinced that your way is the best way."

"The only way," Zeus corrected him smoothly. "Besides, when have I ever steered us wrong?"

Hades merely grunted in return.

"There's a first time for everything," he said.

"You still have no faith in me?" Zeus said from beneath arced brows.

"I always have faith in you," Hades said. "It's Callisto I have no faith in. Ares _is_ right you know. This is more than she can handle and I think even you can see that, but you're betting all our lives on it regardless."

Zeus slid down into an empty seat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers in front of his lips.

"Do you remember how our rule began?" he asked.

"I'm a god," Hades replied simply. "I never forget anything, but even were I not, how could I ever forget that?"

Zeus nodded, more to himself than anything else.

"Then you'll remember that it was Cronus who decided our worth, our roles..." he said, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against his lips as he spoke.

Hades just rolled his eyes.

"Oh here we go..." he groaned but Zeus pressed on, ignoring his brother's protests.

"The prophecy said that one of us would destroy him, and those simple words decided our fates before any of us were even born. When he heard them, our father decided that none of us were fit to replace him, that none could ever be greater than him. We were never given a chance to be any more than what he thought we would be Hades. We were destined to be a threat to him and his kind, and so that's exactly what we became. A self fulfilling prophecy it would seem, and a never ending cycle... Perhaps we could have been so much more if he had trusted in us instead of fearing us."

He paused and sat in silence for a moment before fixing Hades with a level stare. "Are you saying we should do the same thing to Callisto? Prejudge her? Decide who and what she is before she has ever been given the chance to prove that she can be anything different? Anything more? Should we damn her to being just another link in a never ending chain of hatred and vengeance and not allow her to make that decision for herself?"

"She's had those chances before!" Hades argued, his voice rising in frustration. "She has squandered each and every one of them!"

"What happened in Sparta wasn't her fault," Zeus said evenly.

Hades threw his hands up in exasperation.

"But what happened to Strife was!" He snapped. "This isn't the time for your sentimentality! Just because you have a weakness for blondes and she's pretty and tragic, doesn't mean you get to risk all our lives and the fate of the world we built so that she might be able to live hers happily ever after!"

"Isn't offering someone like her the chance for a better life the exact reason that so many of these mortals believed in us in the first place?" Zeus retorted.

Hades gave a frustrated grunt and slumped back in his seat in surrender.

"We chose her for practical reasons..." Zeus continued.

"_You_ chose her," Hades interrupted, hooking an accusing finger toward his brother. Zeus nodded at that with grudging acceptance.

"Very well then," he said. "_I _chose her, and for reasons that I stand by even now, but if, out of all this suffering and death, she can prove to others and, most importantly to herself, that she was the person _worth_ choosing, then I would call that no small victory."

Hades regarded him steadily for a moment, then shook his head and gave a dry chuckle.

"You know something," he said, "I think you're finally getting soft in your old age."

A wry smile slid slowly across Zeus' face.

"I think we've both seen what the alternative looks like," he said.

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><p>EDIT: Some tweaks and expanded dialogue, particularly toward the end.<p> 


	2. Chapter One: Bad Company

**Chapter One: Bad Company**

The town of Tryxis stank of fish and salt water.

That was the first thing Ithius noticed about it as he reined in his horse and began to take in his surroundings. The second thing he observed – and which he was honestly surprised by – was the drabness of the place.

He had heard that Tryxis was considered to be a fairly major port town in the region, an important stop off point for travellers moving between Sparta and Delphi across the bay to the North. Trade ships plied the route regularly, often carrying those travellers who could afford to pay. The bay route was not the only route north. Should one choose to travel by foot, there was also a coastal road that spanned the distance too. It was, however, a serpentine affair, indirect at best and downright tortured at worst. It passed miles out of its way and could easily add days, if not weeks, to any journey north. Most people preferred the more direct route via ship between the ports at Tryxis and Delphi.

Knowing this, Ithius had expected a bustling market town, full of life and – perhaps more notably – merchant coin. Instead, the atmosphere of the place was a stark, joyless one and the few people shuffling about the streets seemed dejected and sullen.

The early hour could perhaps be to blame, with only a few fisherman up and about their business, readying nets and baskets for transport down to the docks for the days labours. Normally he would have expected them to humming songs or chanting shanties as they worked as way to keep in rhythm and to keep boredom at bay. There was none of that now though. The men worked in silence, their brows furrowed and their faces dour.

One or two of them glanced up at Ithius where his horse had come to rest, and he shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as they regarded him before turning back to their work. Ithius breathed a low sigh of relief. He had not seriously thought they would recognise him. He had never travelled this far north before, and Tryxis itself was outside Spartan territory, but even so, it would not pay to let his guard down. Just because the Spartan's possessed no true authority here did not mean there were not people lurking around the place who were eager for their favour.

Not wanting to attract any more significant attention than he already had done, he quickly dismounted from his horse and pulled the hood of his rough, worn travelling cloak closer across his eye line so as to obscure his features from prying eyes. The previous night had seen scattered autumnal showers that had turned the town's mud packed streets to mulch that squelched loudly as his boots settled into it. With an irritated grunt, he pulled his left foot free of the mire with an audible sucking sound and regarded it miserably before straightening and squaring his shoulders. A chill breeze was washing in off the coast and he pulled his cloak tighter around him to hold it back.

Behind him he heard a similar annoyed grunt and he turned to see Drogo struggling through a particularly sodden patch of earth toward him.

"Lovely town," the stocky Helot muttered sarcastically as he drew even with Ithius.

"You don't like it?" Ithius said, cocking an eyebrow at the other man. "The local colour isn't to your taste?"

A particularly cold gust of wind blew in from the coast, carrying with it the fresh stench of raw fish and Drogo wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Let's just say that its not making my top ten list of retirement destinations anytime soon," he said.

Ithius gave a dry chuckle and turned back to his horse, loosening the straps that held the wide bedroll to the back of his saddle. A moment later, he had it free and was slinging the rolled blanket across his shoulders.

"Come on," he said, gesturing down the town's main street with his head. "Let's find the inn and get ourselves warmed up.

Locating the inn proved to take very little time indeed. The main street opened up into a wide town square, less than two hundred metres down the path they had rode in on, and unlike the streets connecting to it, it was blissfully free of mud, lined as it was with plain but well cut cobbles. The two of them led their horses up onto the cobbles, each animal's hooves beating out an even clip-clop rhythm as they walked. The buildings here were more built up than the rest of the town, most boasting two storeys and some even three.

At the centre of the square was a small shrine to Artemis, clearly a popular goddess in the lands around Sparta as well as within Sparta itself. The top of the shrine was a carved stone bust of the goddess herself, her flat, impassive eyes staring out across the village square, unseeing but still strangely watchful. It was only as he drew nearer the shrine that Ithius frowned. There was some kind of marking marring the otherwise smooth stone cheeks of the bust, and as he leaned closer he felt a small sickening sensation in his stomach. Whoever had defaced the statue had not been a stone-worker, that much was clear, but their crude carving was still immediately recognisable as a small sickle.

Ithius straightened and glanced about him worriedly. Were the Followers here too? It seemed hard to believe, but then with Sparta's influence expanding it stood to reason that the Followers might just be spreading theirs too. Was this all a trap? Had they known that Ithius and Drogo were coming all along? Could they be out there even now, watching and waiting? Ithius gave a mental shake of his head. He was probably just being paranoid, but still, the sight of the sickle symbol had pit him on edge.

Turning away from the statue, he took in the square around him once more, only this time with keener eyes. At the opposite end of the square was a large grey stone building, it's doors built of solid looking oak and flanked by rough cut pillars. It was clearly some kind of central town hall. Between the doors and the pillars, two badly armoured men in tinpot helmets and breast plates, each one of them wielding dusty hand me down spears, stood to a shabby kind of attention, and Ithius found himself wondering if the people who ran the town seriously considered these 'guards' as a real force to be reckoned with.

One of the men was watching him now with hooded eyes. For a moment, it almost seemed to Ithius that the man might have recognised him, then as their gazes met, the guard straightened, his fingers tightening around his spear as if to say 'move along'. Ithius did his best not breathe a sigh of relief and instead gave the guard a courteous nod, then turned away to lead his horse toward a nearby hitching post and water trough outside a sturdy wooden building on two storeys that he assumed to be the town's main inn.

Once the horses were secured and drinking, the two men headed inside, loosening their cloaks as they stepped across the threshold from outside and into the comparative warmth beyond. Ithius' assumption was proven right as they entered and were faced with a large and surprisingly well appointed common room. A thick stone hearth sat along one wall, with a bar opposite it and between the bar and the hearth were scattered a number of round tables, each with five seats a peace. A few were already occupied by a small number of people breakfasting – the inn's current guests Ithius supposed – and all of them looked up to regard the new arrivals warily as the door swung shut behind Drogo.

Two men in particular seemed to have taken notice of them; one old and swarthy, the other young, but with a pockmarked face and sullen jaw. When they caught Ithius watching them, they hastily returned to their drinks, muttering quietly to one another as they did so.

Ithius' eyes narrowed suspiciously but before he could say or do anything, Drogo was stepping up beside him.

"Yeah," his companion whispered under his breath. "Really getting the warm and fuzzies from this place."

Ithius said nothing in reply.

Suddenly, the back door to the common room, a door that presumably lead to the kitchens, began to open to reveal the inn keeper walking through with an armful of empty ale tankards in his grasp. The warm light from the kitchens at his back silhouetted him, making his features difficult to determine until he pushed the door closed with his foot and began to make his way over to the bar. For a moment he did not notice them through the dim light of the common room, but when he did, he paused for a, his eyes sharp and calculating.

He was tall.

Not quite as tall as Ithius, but certainly more so than Drogo, and his shoulder's were broader than either of theirs. His hands were thick, calloused and worn, and the ring finger of his left hand was missing down to the knuckle. He had short dark hair with a single tuft of grey at the right temple and a thin, neatly trimmed beard.

For a moment, Ithius and Drogo stood watching him steadily, then Ithius nudged Drogo with his elbow and the two of them headed over to the bar. The innkeeper watched their approach and slammed the tankards he was carrying down angrily. Drogo paused at that, but Ithius ignored the gesture and instead stepped boldly up to the bar, resting his bedroll against it before leaning forward and giving the innkeeper his best ingratiating smile. The man's upper lip twitched toward an out and out snarl in response.

"Nice place you have here," Ithius said as conversationally as he could manage. "Very homely, especially on a morning as dreary as this one."

The innkeeper stared at him in silence for a moment, then picked up one of the tankards and began to polish it with a rag pulled from the belt around his waist. His eyes never left Ithius the whole time.

"It's normal for innkeeper's to greet their guests," Drogo chipped in with forced cheerfulness as he approached from behind Ithius. "Hard to keep them coming through the door otherwise."

The innkeeper's eyes flickered to him briefly, then back to Ithius.

"And how may I be of service to you gentlemen this morning?" he said from between gritted teeth. Ithius would know that accent anywhere. The innkeeper was from Sparta. He shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very aware of the half dozen or so pairs of eyes spread about the common room that he could now feel on him.

"Oh, the usual," he said as conversationally as he could manage. "Just a room for a pair of weary travellers and a bite to eat will do."

The innkeeper cocked an eyebrow at them as he placed the first tankard to one side and began cleaning a second.

"Just the one room?" he said. "For the pair of you? You don't want a second one?"

"By Olympus no!" Drogo replied, a little too jovially. "Do you think we're made of money?"

Ithius produced a small pouch of dinars and placed it on the bar next to the first cleaned mug.

"Just the one room will do," he said, the dinars clanking heavily in the bag. "That and a couple of bowls of broth. It's been a long, wet ride, and we could both do with a hot meal and a warm place to rest our heads."

"Maybe a nice steaming bath too," the innkeeper jeered at them. "You could rub each other's backs."

Ithius could feel Drogo tense angrily next to him. The stocky Helot could be remarkably hot headed at times.

"If you'd prefer we found other accommodations..." he began, and started reaching for the bag of dinars.

The innkeeper slammed the second tankard he had been polishing down hard against the bar, blocking Ithius' hand from reaching for the coins.

"No, no," he said, scooping up the bag and tucking it through a hoop in his belt. For a brief instant, his eyes darted beyond Ithius' shoulder in the direction of the two men Ithius had noted earlier, and then a small smirk began to spread across his face. "I think I have just the room for you. Some of the locals call it the honeymoon suite."

With that he turned and began to make his way out from behind the bar and over toward a staircase in the corner of the common room. Drogo seemed about ready to throw himself at the man and attempt to wring his neck. With a long suffering sigh, Ithius reached out and placed a placating hand on his fellow's shoulder. He could still feel the eyes of the others in the room on them and the last thing they needed was to go causing a scene.

"Easy," he said quietly. "We didn't come here to start a fight remember."

The words seemed to have the desired effect, calming Drogo a little... but only a little.

"Well?" the innkeeper called back to them from the foot of the stairs. "Are you gentlemen coming or not?"

Ithius stepped around Drogo, nodding toward the innkeeper and hefting his bedroll as he did so. The two of them followed the man upstairs into a long corridor that ran along one edge of the building before hooking right in an L shape. All the bedrooms were along the one side, and the innkeeper lead them along its length and around the corner onto a second corridor identical to the first save that it was slightly shorter and that it ended in a single door instead of another corner. They did not walk the length of this one, instead stopping about halfway down, the innkeeper reaching out to hold one of the doors open for them.

"After you," he said without any real hint of politeness. Drogo stalked past him, steam practically pouring from his ears. Ithius followed only a little behind him, the innkeeper stepping inside on his heels and closing the door quietly behind them.

As Ithius stepped more fully into the room, he paused, his mouth hanging open. At the room's centre was a double bed with four posts that all arced inward to meet at a single point a few feet above the bed's plush looking mattress. Attached to each of these posts was a simple gauze veil that gave the bed a suggestive and luxuriant quality. In the corner of the room sat a single small but well appointed copper bath tub, currently empty, but doubtless the favourite feature of many a couple on their wedding night.

Drogo was standing only a few feet in front of him, his back rigid, his shoulders all but shaking with rage.

"Is this supposed to be funny?" he snarled, rounding on the innkeeper savagely.

The taller man's openly hostile expression faded slightly to be replaced by a dry smirk.

"Drogo, my old friend," he said, unhooking the pouch of dinars they had given him from his belt and tossing them casually back to Ithius, "sometimes you are just too easy."

Drogo let out a furious snarl and hurled his travel pack at the innkeeper with such force that the other man audibly gasped when he caught it square in the sternum.

Ithius had to fight back a grin himself.

"You have to admit," he said, doing his best not to visibly smile, and finding it all but impossible, "It was kind of funny."

"Funny!" Drogo hissed. "Funny!? This heaving dung mound is the one who called us here in the first place. We've risked life and limb getting here, then what does he do when we finally arrive? Plays off colour jokes and makes us look like fools in front of those yokels downstairs!"

"Two things," the innkeeper said, his smirk turning to a grin, as he began to cross the room to stand directly in front of Drogo. "One; I resent being referred to as a dung heap." He drew himself up to his not inconsiderable height so that he towered over the smaller man, "and two; you seem to be under a lot of stress my old friend. Why don't you hop on the bed over there and I'll give you a massage..." even before he finished his voice was already breaking, only for him to collapse into torrent of laughter as Drogo fumed even hotter. The shorter man gave a final disgusted huff and stalked over to where the innkeeper had dropped his bag and began to rummage through it in an effort to avoid further conversation.

Still laughing, the innkeeper turned and seated himself on the edge of the bed, leaning tiredly against one of the bedposts as he attempted to collect himself. Ithius crossed to his side and thrust out his hand.

"Your wit has been sorely missed Plykus," he said. "Still, it's good to see that you're keeping well."

Plykus sobered slightly as he eyed Ithius' hand. For a moment Ithius was not sure the other man was even going to take it, but then, almost grudgingly, he reached up, grasped Ithius' hand, and shook it.

"As well as can be expected these days," he said, his voice growing darker as he looked between Ithius and Drogo. "I must say, it's a surprise to see you both in such good shape considering."

"Considering what?" Drogo said, glancing up from his bag.

"Considering the rumours coming out of the south," Plykus replied a touch too evenly. "I'd ask if any of them were true, but I have it on good authority from other sources that just about all of them are."

Ithius frowned at the other man.

"And what word have you heard out here exactly?" he asked. It would be interesting to see just what the rest of Greece had learned about what had taken place in Sparta.

"Until a week ago, only bits and pieces," Plykus shrugged. "The news about Thermopylae was the first to reach us obviously. The Athenians who fought at King Leonidas' side headed through here just under a month ago. Quite the story they had to tell was well, I can assure you. A lot of people upped and left with them. Thought it would be safer if they weren't directly in the path of a Persian horde I suppose."

Ithius swallowed slightly at the mention of Leonidas. He had managed to push the guilt that had plagued him since the betrayal of his childhood friend to the back of his mind recently. Running the Helot refugee camp and ensuring its location remained hidden from marauding Spartans had occupied his waking hours so fully that he had had little time to spend dwelling on his past mistakes. Still the mention of it now had stirred uncomfortable memories to the surface.

"Of course we started to hear other rumours too," Plykus continued. "The Helots all but vanishing over night, some whispered stories about a coup, and that now Sparta had only one King, instead of two serving under the council of Ephors. There were a couple of travellers staying here a few days ago, and they just kept telling crazy stories that some warlord out of the north was involved in it all..." his voice trailed off as he attempted to recall what he had heard. "What did they call her again... it wasn't Xena... It was something like... Calypso? Calemsho? Definitely a Cal-something."

"Callisto," Ithius said quietly.

Plykus snapped his fingers.

"That's the one!" he said. "So you heard that rumour too then?"

Ithius shook his head.

"Not as such, no."

Thoughts of Callisto lying unconscious on a rickety old bed back at the camp filled his head, bringing another fresh surge of guilt with them. He had heard all the stories about her of course. Just about everyone in Greece had heard tell of Xena, the Warrior Princess, and if they had heard of her, they had almost certainly heard Callisto being mentioned in the same breath. The two of them had a feud that was fast becoming legendary, and when Ithius had first heard she was in Sparta, he had feared just what devastation she might be bringing with her. Then he had actually met her, and she had not been what he had expected in the least. While the stories about Callisto may have been true, they nevertheless neglected to mention important details about her. It was those little details that had changed everything about the way he thought of her. Even then, when he had thought he had her figured out, she had still managed to surprise him. Of all the people in Sparta Leonidas could have chosen as his ally, she should have been the least trustworthy, the least steadfast, yet for some reason, when all others were deserting their King, she was the one that had remained strangely loyal to him, and at first, Ithius had not been able to figure out why.

He reached inside the folds of his robe and felt a crumpled roll of parchment there, secure and safe; Leonidas' last letter to him, and the one thing he possessed that managed to assuage the guilt he had to suppress daily. He still had a hard time believing that what it claimed about Callisto was true; that she was some kind of a messenger or champion of the gods, sent back to earth to aid them in a struggle against some nebulous threat that a little Athenian historian, Monocles, had later named as Cronus.

Monocles had told him other things too. Ithius remembered how he had spoken of a barrier between worlds, and how the massacre of the Helots by King Demosthenes – followed later by the coup that had made him the supreme authority in Sparta – had all been part of a plot by Cronus' Followers to weaken the barrier and allow their object of worship a way back into the world of the living. Like with the Callisto stories, he had struggled to accept any of it. It all sounded a little far-fetched to him really, but then so too had the idea of Spartans turning on their slaves. Now that that had become a truly terrifying reality, perhaps there was some truth to all of this Cronus nonsense as well.

"Soooo..." Plykus said, the word rolling off his tongue as he spoke. "Now you know what I've heard. Care to tell me how much of it is true, and just how much of it you've managed to get yourselves mixed up in?"

"I'm sorry," Ithius said, feigning ignorance, and doing a poor job of it. Despite being glad to see Plykus, he still was not entirely sure how much he could trust the other man. "I don't understand what it is that you're asking."

Plykus rolled his eyes.

"Oh Come on Ithius!" he said, his voice heavy with exasperation now. For a moment it looked like he might even become genuinely angry. Then he took a long, calming breath and fixed Ithius with a steady gaze. "Look, I get that you don't want to say too much. I may even agree with it up to a point. What with everything that's been going on you'd be fools to be too trusting. If Demosthenes really has it in for the Helots, if he is actually trying to wipe us of the map, then the fact that you're still out here causing trouble must really stick in his craw..."

"...And you want to know exactly how much trouble we've been causing?" Drogo finished for him, not even trying to hide the incredulity in his voice. "That's why you dragged us here isn't it? You wanted to find out if we're responsible for all this!?"

Ithius had to admit to himself that the message from Plykus asking for a chance to meet with them had been completely unexpected. He had never thought he would see the big innkeeper again, and indeed, he had not actually thought of him at all in the year or more that had passed since Marathon. Of all the Helots that had fought and survived that battle, Plykus had easily been the most inscrutable and private. He had not stayed in Sparta long after receiving his freedom and the last any of them had seen or heard of him was the day after the ceremony at the mustering fields. His message coming to them so suddenly had been something of a minor mystery; until now at least. If Drogo was right however, it begged the question, why did Plykus even care? Was he about to involve himself? Why would someone as a-political as Plykus even choose to do so, and even more importantly, why would he choose to do it now?

"Are you telling me you aren't?" Plykus said, replying to Drogo's question and fixing the squat man with a steady stare. "I know you both well enough to know that a Spartan King wouldn't be trying to kill you if you hadn't given him reason enough to do so in the first place." He leaned back on the bed, his gaze moving back and forth between the two of them in a considering manner.

"You did something to stir up the hornets nest didn't you?" he said after a moment's pause.

Ithius nodded, feeling a fresh surge of guilt in the pit of his stomach.

"We did," he said softly. "We played too dangerous a game..."

"...And you lost..." Plykus continued for him. Ithius could only nod again. "...And now our people are dying." There was no malice in his tone as he spoke; just weary resignation.

"'Our' people!" Drogo snapped suddenly. "Since when were they ever your people? You abandoned us after Marathon! We did what we did for the sake of Helots everywhere, so that all our people could be free and not just the few of us who got lucky! Where were you when we needed you at our side? Where were you when we were at the mustering fields watching our friends and families be slaughtered? Where were you when Demosthenes took the city and started ordering his men to hunt us across the land?"

Plykus jaw muscles flexed, and Ithius could tell the big innkeeper was starting to become angry.

"I never wanted to be a part of your cause Drogo," Plykus said tightly. "I waited a life time for my freedom, and in the end, I had to risk my own neck to get it. I wasn't about to turn around and start risking it all over again for others who didn't have the guts to try for it themselves."

Drogo's fists bunched at that.

"So you just thought you'd leave it the rest of us instead?" he sneered disgustedly. "You're a coward Plykus! You should have died at Marathon. At least then you'd have been doing something useful!"

"That's enough Drogo," Ithius said quietly, but somehow managing to make his voice cut over the other man's rant. Drogo rounded on him irritatedly.

"But Ithius," he began to protest, "why are we even here? I'm just saying what we're both..."

Ithius cut him off with a fierce glare and a wave of his hand.

"Then stop saying it," he said. "It's not helping."

Drogo folded his arms and glared at him, but said nothing more.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Ithius turned back to Plykus.

"He does have a point though," he said. "Our concerns haven't been yours since after Marathon."

Plykus shrugged.

"Your point being?"

"What's changed?" Ithius said.

Plykus regarded him steadily for a moment, before getting to his feet.

"Come with me." He nodded toward the bedroom's door. "There's something you need to see."

The three of them began to file out of the room, Ithius swiping up his bedroll as he went. Plykus arched an eyebrow at him as he did so.

"Planning on setting up camp?" he said.

"Never know when you might need to lay your head down to rest," Ithius replied evenly, much to Plykus' apparent amusement. As they left the room, Plykus turned right down the corridor and began to head toward the door at its end that Ithius had noted earlier. It was probably a service access, he guessed; a way for food to be delivered directly to the rooms from the kitchens below without the staff having to traipse through the main common room. He found himself wondering exactly what would they would find themselves confronted by when they stepped through it. He did not think Plykus would betray them... but then he had been wrong about things like this before.

"Just how did you find us anyhow?" he asked in an attempt to see if he could dig up anymore information. The more he could find out, the more he might be able to get some kind of a handle on what exactly was going on.

Plykus glanced back over his shoulder at him.

"At first, I wasn't even sure where to start looking," he said. "I knew you had to be holed up somewhere though. There were too many stories about you causing trouble to the Spartans for me to think you'd all just packed up and headed for the hills. Then I remembered the old woodsman's place where you and Trellus, and Soriacles all used to have your little meetings. A regular little conspiracy you had yourselves, wasn't it? Only thing is, it wasn't half so secret as you liked to think. Once I'd remembered that getting the message to you was simple enough." He sighed softly to himself before continuing. "I honestly thought the pair of you would've had more sense about you than to just come bungling right through the centre of town the way you did, though."

Drogo scowled at him as Plykus reached the door and pushed it open, revealing a long flight of stairs leading back down to the ground floor.

"And what were we supposed to do?" he said, just barely managing to force a note of civility into his voice.

"Use what little tact you possess," Plykus answered flatly. "Do you really think I'm the only one in town paying attention to the rumours coming up out of the South? The Spartans are pushing further North and expanding their territory day by day. It's only a matter of time before they come knocking on our doors and politely inform us that what was ours is now theirs the way they've already been doing to our neighbours. There are a lot of people hereabouts that are looking for ways to appease them before that happens, and you have to admit, handing over a pair of wanted Helot fugitives might just do exactly that."

Ithius could almost feel Drogo tensing next to him.

"So that's what this is?" he hissed. "We're your bargaining chips?"

Plykus scrubbed a hand across his face and let out a long suffering groan.

"Ithius," he muttered. "Would you tell your little spaniel here to stop yapping at me. He's giving me a headache."

Ithius reached out and placed a calming hand on his friend's arm. He could understand Drogo's wariness. So far Plykus had done nothing to engender their trust and everything to put them on their guards.

"I have to say I agree with him," he said. "You've hardly been the picture of trustworthiness through all of this. How do we know you aren't about to hand us over to the Spartans to spare yourself some trouble when they finally sweep through here?"

Plykus actually looked wounded by that.

"You really think that little of me?" he said.

Ithius shrugged.

"Prove me wrong."

They were at the foot of the stairs now, the narrow stairwell opening up into the kitchen beyond. It was a big, well apointed room, and had been kept surprisingly clean considering the overall dowdiness of the town outside. A large stone cooking hearth had been laid into the wall at the opposite end of the of room from the passage they had just entered by, and doors were set into walls to either side of them, the one on the right presumably heading back into the common room, and the one on the left possibly out into some kind of yard, though Ithius could not be sure. A food preparation table had been set up in front of the hearth, and beyond it was a thick rug, upon which lay the single largest hound Ithius thought he had ever seen. It watched them enter with sleepy, placid eyes, it's tail sweeping back and forth across the rug with slow, heavy scrapes.

Plykus turned away from Ithius and made his way across the room to where the dog lay.

"Come on Minos," he said with a clap of his hands. "Up and at 'em."

The dog did not move. Instead it simply cocked its head curiously at its master.

"Dumb mutt," Plykus muttered under his breath. "I said, up and at 'em!"

Minos' response was to crack its jaws open in a wide yawn, its long pink tongue lolling wetly at the corner of its mouth, before settling its head back on its front paws and watching them innocently from beneath bushy brows.

Plykus sighed, and reached down, grasping the dog by those same front paws and pulling it toward him. The sheer weight of Minos lying on it pulled the rug along too, revealing the tell-tale lines of a trap door set into the kitchen floor.

Releasing Minos, the big innkeeper stepped around the dog and grasped a metal hoop set into the trap door's top. With a grunt, he pulled the trapdoor open and gestured for Ithius to look inside.

Ithius frowned and moved to Plykus' side, staring down into the basement below. The basement itself was not that deep, and it was accessed by a small ladder that ran from the trapdoor to the cold stone floor below. Only a small lamp provided any illumination, but it was that self same lamp was illuminating that proved the most surprising.

A cluster of faces were staring up at him, most of them blinking in the sudden brightness of the light from above. Some looked alarmed, some defiant, and one or two even looked to be on the verge of tears, but one and all, they looked scared.

"Are they..." Ithius began, and Plykus nodded, kneeling down as he did so and reaching out a hand to help one of them up into the kitchen and out of the cramped basement.

"Helots," he said simply. "Survivors of Demosthenes' culling, or so they tell me."

"My Lord Ithius!" the first man gasped as he scrambled up to meet them. "It's good to see you!"

"Lord?" Plykus grinned, tilting an amused eyebrow at Ithius.

Ithius chose to ignore it, instead reaching out and helping the man to stand upright.

"Please don't call me that," he said. "I'm no Lord and wouldn't know how to begin to behave like one. Ithius will do just fine."

The Helot shrugged.

"As you wish my lo... Ithius," he corrected himself nervously. Ithius' frown deepened. He knew this man. He had once worked as a palace servant for Leonidas. The last time Ithius had seen him was when he had been there in search of Callisto. He had actually been too late it turned out, Callisto having already left for the Tomb of Lycurgus, but he had managed to run into Monocles, and this man.

"What's your name?" he asked.

The man blinked in surprise.

"Crius," he said, frowning in confusion.

"And your friends?" Ithius asked, gesturing toward the other Helots clambering out of the trap door. "Who are they?"

"Others like myself," Crius said, glancing back at them as he did so. "I did as you told me at the palace that afternoon. I gathered up those I could find and fled the city. We've been trying to work our way north for the last month or so, avoiding the Spartan patrols in the hope we might be able to escape to Delphi or Athens."

Ithius' mind turned. Could Crius be telling the truth? Had they really managed to survive on the road north for close to a month, all the while being hunted by Demosthenes' Spartans? If Crius was indeed genuine, their survival was little less than a miracle... Or was it? He shook his head. Athelis' paranoia must be wearing off on him, but still, the thought would not leave his head.

"How did you even come to be here?" he asked, but before Crius could speak, Plykus interjected.

"I got word of them from some merchants staying here a few days ago. They'd run into them on the road and taken pity on them. I managed to intercept them before they came wandering into town the same way you did. Good job I did too. There's a lot of people in this town who aren't quite so welcoming as I am."

Drogo frowned at him.

"And what is it you think you can gain from this?"

Plykus turned an irritated expression on him.

"I didn't think it would be this hard for you to trust me," he said.

Drogo folded his arms squarely across his chest and cocked his head at the innkeeper.

"Sign of the times I guess,"

Plykus scrubbed a hand frustratedly through his hair.

"Listen, I know you both think I'm a jackass. You're probably right too, but even I can't just stand by and watch while our people are hunted down and slaughtered like animals." He fixed Drogo with a level gaze. "I'm not the heartless opportunist you seem to think I am. There _are_ people around here who are though, and they're starting to get suspicious of me. You need to get Crius and the rest of these poor souls out of here before they are found out, and you need to do it_ now_."

Ithius frowned at him.

"They've been safely hidden away here with you for the last few days," he said, his voice slow and cautious. "Why the sudden urgency to get them out of here? What's happened?"

Plykus gave Ithius a look that was equal parts irritation and at the same time, strangely pleading.

"There are Spartans coming here," he said simply.

Ithius felt his stomach turn at that. The last he had heard, the lands around Tryxis were still mercifully free of Spartan influence. Apparently that was no longer the case. He heard Drogo groan softly next to him and he could understand why. This was not the news they had wanted to hear. Ever since they and the other survivors of Demosthenes' Helot massacre had gone into hiding, misfortune just seemed to keep being heaped upon misfortune.

"Why?" Drogo said, his hands clenching tightly into fists. "What could they want with this place?"

"The whole of Greece knows about what happened in Sparta by this point," Plykus replied, "and their sudden expansion is making the other city states nervous. They haven't declared any wars yet, and Delphi and Athens want to make sure it stays that way. There's some kind of diplomatic mission heading through here in the next week or so, a group of would be peacemakers hoping to negotiate a deal to keep Sparta in line. The Spartans are coming to meet them and protect them as they journey south."

"Protect them!?" Drogo snapped. "From who?"

Ithius was fairly certain he already knew the answer. Plykus cocked an eyebrow at Drogo and flashed him a dry smile that never touched his eyes.

"Surely you've heard about the bandits and revolutionaries plaguing the roads around Sparta recently?" he said sarcastically.

"But there aren't any..." Drogo began, then a look of realisation spread across his face. "Oh," he finished simply.

Ithius hefted his bedroll and turned to face the huddled group of fearful Helots. If what Plykus was saying was true, they had no more time to waste.

"That settles it then," he said, doing his best to keep the worry out of his voice. It would not do to tip these already half panicked people into full blown hysteria. "Crius, I need you to get your people to gather what belongings they have and be ready to move in the next five minutes. Can you do that for me?"

The nervous Helot straightened and lifted his chin, swallowing nervously as he did so but still managing to appear at least somewhat in control.

"I'll make sure of it my lor..." he began, then paused and corrected himself. "Ithius," he finished.

Ithius gave him the best encouraging smile he could manage under the circumstances.

"Excellent," he said, then turned back to Plykus and Drogo. "Can I speak to you both?" he asked, gesturing toward a corner of the room away from the nervous crowd of Helots.

Plykus and Drogo moved to join him, both of them frowning quizzically.

"So you have a plan then?" Plykus asked.

"Not quite," Ithius said, "but I'm getting there."

Drogo raised his eyebrows at him.

"Care to fill us in?" he said expectantly.

"You're going to head out now," Ithius said. "Take the horses and ride as fast as you can. Find Athelis. If he's doing as he's told, he should still be just outside town where we left him."

"And when I find him?" Drogo asked.

"You head back and meet us where we agreed," Ithius replied. "Make sure to bring the wagon. We'll need it to get these people out of here in any kind of reasonable time frame."

Drogo nodded and began to head for the kitchen door that led back out through the common room toward the front of the inn.

"Not that way," Plykus said abruptly.

"Huh?" Drogo frowned in confusion.

"There are people out there watching," Plykus said. "It will look suspicious if you head out from the kitchens. Go back up the stairs and round the rooms. It will look less like you've been in here."

Drogo just shrugged and turned to head for the stairs, casting one last glance back over his shoulder as he went.

"Good luck," Ithius called after him.

"You just be safe," Drogo replied, pausing on the first step, then suddenly and unexpectedly he gave a respectful nod to Plykus. "The both of you," he said then disappeared back up the stairs.

Plykus turned back to Ithius.

"So where is this meeting place of yours?" he asked.

"A small copse of trees just outside of town," Ithius said. "You know it?"

Plykus nodded.

"And how do you propose we get them their?" he said, gesturing to the small bunch of Helots. Most were hefting packs and slings filled with traveling gear and keepsakes from homes now lost to them. "Are they supposed to sprout wings and fly?"

"We get them there the only way we can," Ithius said simply, "We walk them out of here, and we do it now, while its still early, and before half of Tryxis is flooding the streets."

Plykus scrubbed a hand through his hair, clearly not liking Ithius' plan.

"And once you get them out of Tryxis?" he said doubtfully. "What do you plan to do then?"

"My…" Ithius paused as he tried to think of the correct term to describe Athelis. "…ally…" he eventually managed, "…has brought my wagon with him. We'll load these people into it and head for the hills. With any luck we'll be gone without much fuss, and the Spartans will never even need to know we were here."

Plykus shook his head in mild disbelief.

"As plans go, that has to be one of the weakest I think I've ever heard…" he glanced at the crowd of Helots and sighed. "…but then I suppose our options are limited."

He crossed to a nearby cupboard, and pulled the doors roughly open. Behind a dozen or so sacks of flour, Ithius could just make out the scabbard of a sword. Plykus reached out and pulled the weapon free. It looked like it had not been used in years, but when Plykus unsheathed it, the blade still flashed keenly in the dim light of the kitchens. The innkeeper looked up at Ithius.

"You need a weapon?" he asked simply. "I think there should be a couple of cudgels about here somewhere. I occasionally have to crack some skulls if the locals get a little too rowdy."

Ithius shook his head.

"Won't be necessary," he said, hefting his bedroll. "I'm as armed as I need to be."

Plykus, cocked his head quizzically but said nothing.

"Are your people ready Crius?" Ithius asked.

"As ready as we can be," Crius said.

Ithius nodded and began to make for the inn's back door.

"Then lets get moving," he said, pushing the door open, and peering out into the street beyond. A row of laundry hanging from a line overhead fluttered briefly in the breeze but beyond that nothing moved. Overhead the sky had lightened slightly, but it was still early hours, and in the mud caked back streets themselves, all remained silent.

Taking a deep breath, Ithius crept out into the street, moving quickly but cautiously, his shoulders ever so slightly slumped and ready to drop into a defensive guard at any moment. His eyes darted from left to right and back again, taking in every shadow draped corner, high balcony, stack of fishing gear, or other potential hiding place. Still, nothing so much as stirred out of turn.

The Helots fell in quickly behind him, moving together in a bunch, glancing furtively about themselves as they went. Crius ushered them along as best he could while Plykus brought up the rear, his hand resting warily on the pommel of the sword that was now belted to his hip.

They made good time. The backstreets were almost completely empty, and on the few occasions they did spy other townsfolk, it was always with enough time for them find a way to avoid being seen. Before long the buildings were becoming sparser and the streets even more heavily clogged with mud. Ithius mentally cursed the loud squelching sound his boots made as he moved, but it did not seem to draw any attention from the shuttered windows above. Plykus had moved to his side now, and was glancing warily down the various junctions they passed as they walked.

"Not much further to the edge of town," he said quietly.

Ithius glanced at him.

"You sound nervous," he said, turning his attention back to the street ahead of them.

"Everything just seems a little too easy."

Ithius nodded in agreement.

"I know," he said. In truth, after what Plykus had said about the locals, he had expected escaping Tryxis to be more difficult than actually getting back to the camp once they were clear of the town. "You think it's a trap?"

Plykus rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Could be," he said, and then shrugged. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid."

They rounded a corner in the street and were immediately confronted by a gang of some ten or so swarthy looking fishermen blocking the way.

"Or I could've been right all along," Plykus cursed, eyeing the fishermen darkly.

Each of them was wielding some kind of improvised weapon, and they came in many different shapes and sizes. Some were holding clubs, while others carried hatchets and filleting knives at their sides. One or two men were even hauling weighted fishing nets, as if they expected to be able to catch people in them the same way they did their daily haul out at sea. Slowly they began to advance down the street toward them.

"Is there another way around?" Ithius asked softly.

Next to him, Plykus nodded.

"We'll have to back track a little though,"

Ithius began to back warily down the street, the crowd of Helots and Plykus moving with him.

"I don't have a problem with that," he said and turned to head in the opposite direction to the advancing gang. He stopped dead in his tracks, not really surprised at the sight that confronted him.

A second group, similar to the first in size and manner, had stepped into the street behind them, barring any possible escape route they might have taken.

"So much for plan A," Plykus muttered. "Do you have a plan B?"

Ithius shrugged and hefted his bedroll, unwinding the moth-eaten sheets to reveal the polished length of a two handed sword gleaming wickedly in the dull morning light.

"We ask them to stand aside," he said, lifting the blade clear and allowing the bedroll to fall away into the mud.

"_Ask_ them?"

Ithius shrugged.

"Politely?" he suggested.

Plykus groaned wearily.

"I take it there is no plan C," he said, grudgingly unsheathing his own sword.

At the sight of the genuine weapons being revealed, both groups of men paused momentarily, before starting forward again. As they walked, a man at the head of the first gang, presumably the ring leader, raised his hands in a placating manner.

"Now come on lads," he said, his words directed toward Ithius and Plykus. "I'm sure we can all talk about his nice and calm, like. There's no call for this to get bloody."

"If you wanted to talk peacefully, you shouldn't have come armed!" Ithius shot back, suddenly recognising the man as one of the pair that had eyed them suspiciously when he and Drogo had entered the inn earlier.

"I could say the same to you," a younger man returned with a nod toward their weapons. It was the younger of the pair from the inn earlier; the one with the sullen jaw. "What makes a 'humble traveler' carry a sword like that?"

"Lynch mobs," Ithius replied smartly, clutching his sword tighter as the crowd neared him.

"This ain't no lynching!" the younger said defensively "We got no choice! Spartans are comin' here, and they'll put us all to the torch if we don't pay 'em off first!"

"And you want these people to be the payment?" Ithius retorted feeling his frustration growing. He did not want to hurt anyone, but he had lost too many of his people already to Demosthenes and his soldiers, and he would be damned if he was going to let it happen again when he still had a chance to prevent it, no matter how slim that chance might actually be.

"You think you can just hand them over and the Spartans and that that will be enough?" he continued, doing his best to make the mob see reason. "I was at the mustering fields outside the city when King Demosthenes ordered these people slain! He is a man obsessed with the greatness of his Sparta, and he will stop at nothing to see it achieved! He won't stop hunting us until we are all dead, and our names little more than fading memories!"

The separate gangs were beginning to hem them in on both sides, and Ithius could feel the tension in the air rising as one or two of the refugee Helots began to fearfully produce weapons of their own. Like those belonging to the townsfolk, they were makeshift at best, most little more than cooking knives or walking staffs, but the gesture did not go unnoticed and a thin ripple of muttered warning ran through the crowd of people surrounding them.

"You and yours have our sympathies lad," the older man spoke up again, and sounding more sincere than Ithius had expected. "Truly you do, but we can't be caught in the middle of this. We've got to take care of our own. Sparta's a big city with a grand ol' army, and we're just some little town of traders and fishermen. We can't stand against a Spartan King, and more importantly we don't even want to try. We have no quarrel with King Demosthenes and his people, and we plan to try and keep it that way."

Ithius had to do his best not to laugh in frustration at their complete naivety.

"You have no quarrel with them?" he said disbelievingly "You honestly believe it's that simple? That handing these people over will keep the Spartans from your door!? We're nothing more than a distraction to them! An unpleasant obstruction that Demosthenes wants swept aside as quickly as possible so that he can concentrate on the real prize. It will not stop with us, and when we're gone, where next do you think they will turn their attentions?"

The gangs of fishermen paused for a moment, shuffling uncomfortably as Ithius and the other Helots glared back at them accusingly.

"You know he's right," Plykus called out, adding his own voice to Ithius'. "Demosthenes is out there now, picking fights. Quarrel or no, he'll pick one with you sooner or later. Handing these people over to be murdered won't save you. It will just damn you all that much faster!"

Ithius glanced at the innkeeper thankfully, but Plykus did not even notice. Slowly the tension began to ease, and crowd of fishermen began to lower their weapons. Ithius began a long, relieved exhale and was about to lower his sword when the great pealing strike of a bell rang out clear and strong in the early morning air. For a moment all fell silent as the Helots and fishermen caste about themselves in confusion. The bell struck again... then again... and again, each strike coming closer on top of the last until they filled the air with a clamoring wave of urgency.

"What is that?" Ithius asked Plykus.

"An alarm bell," Plykus replied, frowning. "But it makes no sense. They only usually ring it when there's a..."

An alarmed cry went up from the back of the mob, and all eyes turned in that direction. Beyond the mob, a column of acrid smoke was rising up over the rooftops above them, staining the grey sky a darker black.

"...fire," Plykus murmured.

"YOU!" The younger man shouted at them from the security of the mob, jabbing his finger accusingly toward the column of smoke overhead. "THIS IS YOUR DOING!"

A rumble of agreement went up from the rest of the crowd, as men began to heft their weapons once more. Ithius could feel his heart racing. What was happening? How had this all gone so badly so quickly? He was about to reply, to speak out in an attempt to diffuse the situation when one of the fishermen standing close to the edge of the Helot crowd made a grab for the nearest Helot to him. His intended victim was a young woman, clutching a burlap sack stuffed with traveling gear tightly to her chest.

What happened next took everyone by surprise. As the man grabbed for the Helot, a keen whistling sound filled the air, and the man stiffened suddenly, a feathered arrow shaft blossoming like the stalk of a crimson flower in his chest. The man stumbled a step backward, falling to his knees as he did so, then finally collapsing onto his back, his eyes already beginning to lose their focus as his life ebbed away.

The mob of townsfolk stood in dumbstruck silence for a moment, all eyes on the dead man lying in the mud. Suddenly, the younger of the two ring leaders looked back up his, his eyes meeting Ithius' and blazing furiously.

"GET THEM!" he shouted.

More arrows from their unseen allies came whistling through the air. Each one struck at the back ranks of the mob, clearly being aimed high and far to avoid striking at Ithius or any of the others. Ithius thought he counted five shots, but only three seemed to find their mark; three of the townsfolk falling to them. Two were simply wounded, the arrows sticking from a shoulder or a leg, but the third was unlucky enough to one in the throat. Then the distance between the two groups was of no consequence any more as the mob fell upon the Helots like circling hyenas finally closing for the kill.

Ithius sword rasped at the air as he struck out at the first man to come for him. His attacker moved in a lumpy and inelegant way, and Ithius' sword found its mark in his gut as much through the other man's clumsiness as it did his own skill. Someone cried out nearby, and he span toward the source of the sound, but could not make anything out through the crowd of jostling bodies. The older ringleader came at him in the moment of distraction, curved and wicked looking filleting knives clutched in each hand. Before Ithius could turn back to face him fully, the first knife lashed out, raking a long but shallow slash along his forearm as he wheeled backward. The second knife came in high, the older man slashing desperately for Ithius' throat. Ithius back slid, then twisted right, his boots squelching in the mud. His sidestep put him neatly on the flank of the older man, and his attackers follow through carried him past Ithius. Ithius did not waste the opportunity, spinning to face the man's unguarded back and sweeping his sword around so that its tip slashed the man's left hamstring. It was a none lethal strike, but it was doubtful just how well the other man would be able to walk following this.

The older man cried out in pain and surprise as his leg, no longer able to hold his weight, gave out under him and he began to stumble forward. Suddenly another figure emerged from the crowd. Clad in rough leathers with shaggy brown hair and a mouth set in a grim line, he was carrying a long sword in one hand and a notched dagger almost big enough to be a short sword in the other, while across his back was slung a short bow and a quiver of arrows.

He moved with practiced skill, but not much in the way of elegance, the sword lashing out with efficient deadliness to catch Ithius' stumbling assailant clear through the chest, killing him almost instantly. It was then that Ithius noticed the others at the man's side. There were around five of them, although in the swirling melee, he could not get an exact head count immediately, and they were all of them Helots save for the man with the dagger leading them. They were armed and armoured in a similar fashion to the first man, carrying swords, hammers, flails and mauls that while hardly of great quality, were nevertheless serviceable and deadly. Like their leader, they also carried slung short bows and quivers. Ithius knew them all of course, and he felt a mounting sense of profound dismay as he watched them go about their bloody work. They struck all about themselves mercilessly, and where their blows landed, the fishermen and other townsfolk of Tryxis fell, cleaved and broken.

Ithius felt his stomach lurch sickeningly, and in the back of his throat he could taste the biting, burning sensation of bile. This could not be happening! This was not who the Helots were, or what they should be! He had only wanted to speak with Plykus and then to rescue his people. He had not wanted it to end like this, and he would not allow it now! With a furious snarl he dove at the brown haired man, seizing him roughly by his leather jerkin and, driving him hard against a nearby wall.

"Athelis!" He snarled in the other man's face, his voice filled with . "This is not what I ordered!"

Athelis smacked his hands away, his eyes as fierce as Ithius'.

"They were trying to kill you!" he protested.

"I can look after myself..." Ithius began.

"...and what about them?" Athelis snapped sharply, motioning to the Helots refugees. "Could you have taken care of them too?"

"We don't have time for this!" Ithius growled. "I'm ordering you to stop it, and stop it _now_!"

Athelis glanced back into the street over Ithius' shoulder, and straightened, lifting his chin and adjusting his jerkin where Ithius had rumpled it.

"Looks like it's already stopped," he said, nodding to the scene playing out behind Ithius. Ithius turned and felt his heart plunge. The fight was indeed over and Athelis' people were the victors. The Helots stood unscathed, Athelis' men having protected them well, but the toll exacted on mob had been high. They were scattered about the street now, each person lying in bloodied heap where they had fallen. None of them made a sound or even so much as moved save for one; the younger of the two ringleaders. Plykus was kneeling beside the man now, his hands soaked with blood as he pressed them to a gaping wound in the younger man's neck.

Ithius crossed to his side, about to offer his help, but as he approached, he quickly saw that any help he did offer would only be so much wasted effort. The young man was dying, and when he did, none would have survived Athelis' assault. He knelt beside Plykus anyway, reaching out to place as comforting a hand as he could manage on the dying man's arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly. "I didn't want it to come to this."

The man's eyes rolled from Plykus to Ithius, and for a brief moment, Ithius saw nothing but hatred staring back at him, and then, a moment later, there was nothing at all.

In the distance, the sound of the rest of the townsfolk of Tryxis attempting to fight the fire that broken out elsewhere in the town filled the air. Ithius had a horrible feeling he knew what had started that fire.

Without a word, Plykus reached out and tenderly closed the younger man's eyes.

"I knew him," he said quietly, his voice distant now, far away and full of sadness. It was a side of him Ithius had never seen before. "He'd come to my inn and drink more nights than he didn't," he continued. "A good kid really. Hot headed, and not very bright, but he didn't deserve this."

He lifted his gaze to Ithius, his face flat and unreadable. "They were just trying to protect their homes."

"And I was just tying to protect our people," Ithius replied. It was the truth but the words still rang hollow to him. "Things just... they just got out of hand and..."

"Out of hand?" Plykus said, his voice rising slightly and he let out a bitter laugh. "Out of hand!?" his voice began to rise even more, taking on an angrier, harder edge as it did so. "Out of hand is when a friendly scuffle leads to accidental broken bones! This..." he gestured to the bodies strewn about, "This wasn't out of hand! This was a massacre!"

The innkeeper's fists clenched tightly, his knuckles turning a fierce white and for a moment, Ithius thought he might actually try and lash out for him.

"I know," he said, doing his best to keep his own voice even and sympathetic. "And for my part in it, I'm sorry, but they wanted to lynch us Plykus. They were trying to make us victims and that I can never... no, _will_ never allow. I may not agree with what just happened here, but I wasn't about to stand back and just let it go ahead either."

Plykus gritted his teeth and took an angry step forward, then paused suddenly, as if he were finally able to truly hear Ithius' words. His shoulders slumped, his fingers un-clenching as he let out a tired exhale.

"You haven't changed at all Ithius," he said shaking his head ruefully "This is why I could never join your cause." He looked around the backstreet, a dark expression on his face. "The price is just too high."

Ithius was about to reply when Athelis appeared behind them.

"If you're both finished, it's time we were getting out of here," he said. "Drogo's waiting with the wagon a couple of streets over and..."

Plykus' fist caught him hard across the jaw, spinning Athelis like a top and sending him crashing hard against a stack of lobster baskets. Plykus was on him immediately, a follow up blow aimed for the smaller man's sternum, but with the element of surprise gone, Athelis was not so easy a target as the taller man had thought. Pulling himself upright he weaved around the blow, twisting his arm as he went to catch Plykus' striking fist in the crook of his elbow, and then twisting cruelly. Plykus bellowed in pain and grabbed for Athelis' jerkin, yanking the smaller man in close for a savage headbutt that sent them both reeling. They were just recovering when Ithius got between them.

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" he shouted, pressing a firm hand to either mans' chest. "The pair of you!"

"This is all his doing!" Plykus shouted furiously, never taking his eyes of Athelis. "You set the fire didn't you!" he demanded, pointing a finger at the mercenary. "DIDN'T YOU!"

"Of course I did!" Athelis shouted back. "I needed to make sure the rest of the town wasn't about to come down on all our heads!"

"So you just thought you'd burn down some innocent peoples' homes?"

Athelis rolled his eyes.

"Don't give me that," he snapped. "These people weren't innocents. They wanted to hang your heads out for the Spartans. If it wasn't for me and the others, they'd probably be scalping the lot of you right now!"

"Athelis," Ithius growled dangerously. The mercenary glanced at him warily, then stalked off with a dismissive wave of his hand. Ithius turned away from him and back to Plykus.

In the distance the bell had ceased its incessant ringing and the thick black cloud of smoke hanging over the rooftops was no longer being fed by the unseen fire below.

"We're out of time," Ithius said simply. "If we don't move now, then there's every chance this could've all been for nothing."

Plykus scrubbed a hand across his face, and gave a frustrated groan.

"Go," he said finally. "Maybe I was just being naive when I thought it wouldn't come to this."

Ithius gave him a halfhearted smile of understanding.

"Maybe we both were," he said. Behind him the surviving crowd of Helots, along with Athelis and his own men were beginning to file up and out of the street. Athelis himself was directing them into a quick footed marching formation that kept their pace brisk and progress steady.

Soon only Ithius and Plykus were left standing in the street among the bodies.

"You could come with us," Ithius said. "We could use someone with your talent and insight, and I have a feeling that Tryxis is not going to be the most friendly of places come the Spartans' arrival."

Plykus gave a dry smile and shook his head.

"I've been living here for the last year and a half," he said. "This is my home now, and there are good people here..."

Ithius cocked an eyebrow at him, and the innkeeper could only manage a shrug in return.

"...lynch mobs not withstanding," he admitted. "Besides, I can probably be of more use to you here."

"Oh?" Ithius said, his expression turning quizzical.

"I'm an innkeeper," Plykus said simply as if that alone should answer Ithius' question. "People tend to drink around me, and drunk people have loose tongues. I can be an extra set of eyes and ears for you."

"But what if the townsfolk find you out?" Ithius asked. It was a valid concern for him. He had lost more than enough friends this last couple of months, and he did not want to have to add Plykus' name to that particular slate.

Plykus laughed, but it was a dry mocking sound and carried none of the mirth or warmth of his earlier laughter at the inn.

"How would they?" he said. "Your man Athelis put paid to everyone who saw me involved."

Ithius gave a nod of understanding, but fixed Plykus with a measuring look anyway. There was something more to Plykus' reason for not wanting to join them.

"That's not the whole truth though is it?" he said, calling the other man on his holding back. "There's another reason you're staying isn't there?"

Plykus glanced about him at the bodies one final time.

"To be honest," he admitted grudgingly, "I don't like the company you're keeping."

Ithius gave another nod of understanding, then, hefting his sword as he did so, he turned to follow the rest of the Helots up the street and out of the town.

"If we're being perfectly honest with each other," he said, cocking his head slightly as he did so, "sometimes, neither do I."

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Apologies for this update taking so long. A busy personnal life and some writer's block held it up a bit, but it's here now. Hope you all enjoy.<p> 


	3. Chapter Two: Their Hearts Afire

**Chapter Two: Their Hearts Afire**

The ringing gong strikes echoed out over the undulating mass of people in what had once been the temple of Ares. As one the crowd fell silent, turning toward the raised dais. It was offset slightly from the middle of the chamber, and held a large stone altar.

From the back of the room, Pelion watched them all, a small smile of satisfaction tilting the corners of his mouth upward. There were so many of them! The turn out for the morning address was even greater than yesterday's, which in turn had been greater than the day before that and so on. In the last month or so the number of Followers in the city had more than tripled, and if today was any indication, that exponential increase was showing no signs of slowing anytime soon.

It had been difficult at first, he had to admit. More difficult than he had thought it would be, even with Demosthenes setting the precedent by publicly abandoning his worship of the Olympians, most notably Ares, and openly worshipping at the temple of Cronus instead. At first many of the high born Spartans had been leery of the temple and the sway it appeared to hold over their newly minted supreme King. The fact that the only Helots to have been spared in Demosthenes' purging were members of the temple did little to disprove the common rumour that the temple held a great deal of sway over the King of Sparta. Over time though, the balance had subtly begun to shift. More and more of Demosthenes' inner circle had been converted, and the power politics of the city's upper classes had led to still more high born Spartans – desperate not be left out in the cold as the worship of the Olympians began to fade – to join with the Followers. Pelion had capitalised on sea change, moving quickly find the cracks through which he could slip the message of his Lord so that he might draw them more fully and securely into the worship of Cronus. It had spread quickly after that, and now here he was surrounded by the devoted and the faithful.

Slowly he began to make his way across the chamber. The sound of his long, ornamental walking staff clacking loudly against the stone cut through the silence easily, and there was a quite rustling and murmuring as all eyes turned to look at him. Pelion basked in the sensation of it. Every morning was like this. Every time he strode confidently out in front of them to spread the message of his Lord, the fires of belief in his heart were stoked, and he knew that that was precisely what Cronus wanted of him; his passion, his zeal, his_ faith._

All those round him were clad in crimson robes identical to his own. There was no difference between them, no grades to their membership, or ranks to display a hierarchy. They were all the same, equal under the watchful gaze of Cronus. Nevertheless, it was easy to separate the Followers' Spartan members from those who were Helots. The Spartans carried themselves taller and with straighter backs. While they would divert their eyes from him when he looked to them, they would never bow their heads. One or two of the soldiers even still carried crested helms in the crooks of their arms, the bronze armour oddly incongruous when placed alongside the crimson robes. The Helot members on the other hand were distinguishable only by their hushed and humble reverence. They did not even look to Pelion, instead standing in silent ranks with heads bowed and eyes downcast as they awaited his address.

Pelion nodded to one or two Spartans from the upper classes before stepping up on the dais. While all were supposedly equal, it would not do to alienate those who could still bring more to their cause.

Turning, he gazed briefly at the altar. Much as they had done at the temple of Artemis in the Outer City, the Followers had smashed the statues dedicated to Ares throughout the temple, going on to heap the remains upon the altar that had once been devoted to him. It was a twin act of both defilement and offering at the same time. Pelion paid it little mind. He would see to it that his Lord was returned to his seat on high, and when that happened, all the Olympians would soon be akin to these statues, humbled and shattered in offering to their Lord's might. Pelion's heart almost quickened as he imagined those who had deserted him in his hour of need being reduced to nothing more than fragments; shades of their former glory.

With a broad wave of his arm, he spun back to look out over the sea of faces gathered before him.

"Brothers and Sisters!" he began, his voice echoing cleanly between the pillars at the edges of the room. "We are here again, as we are every morning, to pay reverence and respect to our Lord! He who was cast down by his children; the so called gods you once held so dear, pretenders to a crown and title not their own..."

His eyes narrowed as he regarded the crowd before him, studying them carefully for any hint – any sign – of discomfort at the words he spoke.

A few people toward the rear of the chamber shifted slightly as he spoke, and Pelion smiled broadly, lifting his arms in a welcoming gesture.

"Ah!" he announced loudly. "I see we have some newcomers to our gathering." All eyes on the temple floor turned, following Pelion's gaze to fall upon the small cluster of people. They were all Spartan but under the pressure of so much attention, even they bowed slightly. Good. It would teach them the values of respect and obedience Pelion demanded of all the Followers. Theirs was too great a task to afford squeamishness even among the newest of members. Sooner or later, all had to face their fears and passions through the trial of the Pneuma, and those who could not... well, there were other uses for them. In the meantime, a little reminder that no matter their station in the world outside, be they leaders or slaves, fighters or bakers, when they stepped inside this temple, they were one and the same as all others, would do these new members a world of good.

Pelion stepped down off the dais and crossed over to the new people, being sure to meet each of their gazes in turn as he approached. He was careful not to look away, holding each one with a steady stare until they broke and diverted their eyes from his. With each of them suitably humbled, he began to speak again.

"My apologies," he said softly. "Did my words make you uncomfortable?"

At first none of them answered, each one's gaze meeting nothing more than the floor.

"It is quite alright you know," Pelion pressed on in a calm, ingratiating manner, smiling gently at them as he did so. "A little discomfort is natural at first. The Olympians have been the only worship you have known your entire lives. It is not easy to change from ways so entrenched... so ingrained..." he paused, his face suddenly becoming serious. "Remember thought that it is they who abandoned you. When your city needed them at Marathon, and again recently, with the horror of the Persian horde at your doors, where were they? They left you, lost and alone, hopeless and angry..." The group of newcomers shifted uncomfortably, and Pelion smiled warmly once more, satisfied that the seed of doubt had been well and truly planted in their minds.

"But take heart my friends," he said, his tone lighter now. "It may indeed take you some time to truly feel what it is all these others have come to feel; to know in your heart of hearts that what we say is indeed truth, and that the world we strive for is indeed a better place, but I can assure you that when you see as we see, and Cronus reaches out to touch your souls as he has done mine, you shall never feel lost or alone again."

He leaned against his staff in the manner of an old man, tired and infirm, but nevertheless still able to stand and face the world. It was affectation. Nothing more. He did not even need the staff to stand, but he had found it a useful prop and one that lent him a certain image he worked hard to cultivate.

"What our faith offers us is not what any of you may have known in the past," he continued. "It may even seem strange to you at first. We do not take comfort in the simple unquestioning adoration of some distant deity who may or may not be listening. Nor do we mindlessly toil in service of a never ending parade of meaningless sacrifices and offerings, made in the vain hope that we receive some small boon or favour from uncaring tyrants."

He turned on the spot and began to address himself to the chamber as a whole instead of merely to the newcomers.

"What we offer is agency!" he said loudly. "The world cries out for a new way; a better way! Our great Lord can grant it to us! He is one who knows full well the tyranny and petty jealousy of the gods! He is one who knows better than any the cold sting of betrayal! It is because of these things that he hears us when no others do! He has seen the wrongs and injustices of the world; has experienced first hand the pain that all of us have also felt! Yes my Brothers and Sisters! The world cries out, and on the day of his Return, so shall he answer, our voices raised alongside his, lending him strength and purpose! Even now he listens, drawing upon your courage and will, to steal himself for what must eventually be done." He began to stride purposefully back across the chamber, his staff now barely touching the ground, as if some great righteous strength had suddenly possessed him. He mounted the dais in a single bound, spinning and casting his arms wide as if to embrace all who stood before him.

"Our Lord Cronus will rise!" he all but shouted, "And when he does, Olympus itself will fall! The old order will be cast down, and a new age will take its place! A golden age of man, as existed long ago, where none shall fear or be feared, where life and death will be one and the same, and none shall ever be lost! Does that not make him worthy of your worship?"

The crowd all but erupted in a frenzied chorus of shouted 'YESES' and loud cheering, their hands thrown upwards in adoration, their faces utterly enraptured. Pelion gave them all a wide and delighted smile as he waited for the crowd to quieten themselves. Finally, as the fervour began to lessen he spoke again.

"Then go now," he said, gesturing expansively toward the doors to the rear of the room and the world that lay beyond them. "Go back to your lives, practice your weapons, master your crafts, sell your wares and toil in your fields, and when the world seems cruel, harsh and unfair, remember him and the glory he will one day bring to us! Our pain emboldens him; our suffering gives him cause, and our hatred gives him fire! Think of him and know that he can hear you, and to those of you new to our ways..." he let his eyes fall back those newcomers toward the rear of the chamber. "...remember that he is always listening."

The address at an end, the temple gong struck another loud booming note, and as one the crowd began to turn and make their way toward the doors, Pelion watching them all with a deep sense of satisfaction, but beneath it there was something else; a bubbling undercurrent of frustration. Today had gone well, as it always did. The word would spread still further and he expected the next day's morning address to be even better attended, but it might all still come to nothing if they were to simply continue sitting in Sparta and waiting.

As the last of the Followers filed out of the room, Pelion caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye, a patch of shadows dancing against the light in an unnatural fashion.

"Have you been watching long?" he asked.

"For a time," a disembodied voice replied. It seemed to come from all directions at once and managed to be both resonant, and hollow at the same time. Suddenly the dancing shadows flickered to an opposite corner of the chamber forcing Pelion's gaze to track with them, before disappearing again out of sight. Pelion sighed. It was a clear attempt to wrong foot him and put him off balance. Instead, he merely found it tiresome.

"Your oration is as fine as ever," the voice continued, but now he could place it. He turned to see the cloaked and hooded form of Mortius stepping out of a cluster of shadows around a nearby pillar as easily as if he were stepping into the room through a door. As usual, the shadows seemed to detach from the surfaces around him to trail obediently in his wake, frollicking and dancing madly across the stone as they went. "Soon the Followers will be ready to go out into the world, to unite the remaining fragments of our order once more, and spread the message of our Lord Cronus across the face of Greece."

Pelion grunted, and Mortius cocked his head slightly. Pelion could almost imagine him frowning beneath the shadows that filled his hood and hid his face from view.

"You do not think the time approaches?" Mortius said.

"Quite the contrary I assure you," Pelion said, crossing to the altar, and resting his hands upon the shattered remains of the statue of Ares. "I do not think we need wait any longer. The Followers are ready_ now._"

"Demosthenes disagrees," Mortius replied. "He says he needs more time to secure the territories and establish his power base before marching the Spartans north."

Pelion shook his head.

"Demosthenes," he muttered. "Always Demosthenes. What need have we of power bases? Of territory? This provincial nonsense bores me. When Cronus is free, the whole of Greece will be ours for the taking! I say why wait any longer? More and more Spartans join us everyday. Our ranks swell with belief; with righteous fire!" He looked directly at Mortius' shadowed face. Not so long ago, he would not have been able to do so. When first they had met, he had been too terrified of his Lord's Soul to even attempt to look him in the eye, let alone challenge him in this way. Much had changed recently though, and now it was all he could do to keep from sneering in disgust.

"Such a fire cannot continue to burn forever," he said dourly.

Mortius stepped up onto the dais with him, his back straight and imperious, completely unbowed by Pelion's defiance.

"As the Faith of our Lord, it is your responsibility to keep that fire burning for as long as need be," he said darkly. "Are you saying that you are not equal to the task at hand?"

Pelion took the rebuke easily. His self confidence was not so easily shaken.

"Ha!" he scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You know full well that that is not the case. You also know full well that our window of opportunity is limited and if we do not move soon, that window will be closed to us, perhaps for good!"

Mortius continued to regard him in silence, his thoughts and feelings as unreadable as ever.

"The Olympians will rally," Pelion pressed on. "The other Greek cities will ready their defences, and all but the most faithful will begin to doubt the courage of our convictions. When that happens, the progress we have made here, the momentum we have built..." he shook his head in frustration. "...All for nothing."

Turning, he regarded the empty temple floor, eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Yet here we sit regardless," he said "Waiting while Demosthenes 'gathers his forces' and 'secures his territory'." He all but sneered as he uttered the same excuses Demosthenes had spat their way time and again since his ascension to the rank of Strength.

Mortius stepped up beside him.

"You would do better to speak plainly in my presence," he said, and for the first time, Pelion thought he detected a hint of irritation in the other man's voice. "I detest insinuation. Say what it is that you feel you must or be silent. I will not tolerate half measures."

"Am I not the Faith?" Pelion said, arching his brow at the hooded figure in mock surprise. "Are we not all equal the three of us? The Soul, Strength and Faith? If it is indeed so, then who are you to threaten me?"

Mortius' moved quicker than he imagined, the black shadows under his hood roiling furiously as he leaned in, mere inches from Pelion's face. Even this close, Pelion's eyes could not penetrate the blackness beneath that hood. Still, he managed to hold his ground, even as a pale sinuous hand snaked out and pointed a long accusatory finger at him.

"Do not test my patience," Mortius hissed. "Say your peace and be done."

Pelion frowned slightly, his mind ticking over the unusual turn of events. He had never seen Mortius so openly emotional before. Had he really managed to put a crack in the other man's seemingly impenetrable armour? In truth he was not sure if he was really the one responsible. Mortius, once so seemingly cool and unflappable, had been behaving oddly more often than not recently. It had begun shortly after he had returned from the Tomb of Lycurgus and his defeat of Callisto. What had happened down their Pelion wondered. What could she have said or done that had shaken him so? Was she even the one responsible? He could not be sure, but nor did he need to care. Demosthenes and his role as Strength had long been a point of contention between the two of them, and openings like this were rare. He planned to exploit it for all it was worth.

"Very well," he said with a slight tilt of his head. "I shall speak candidly then. Demosthenes was _your_ choice. Never mine, and I think these incessant delays are ample proof of his unsuitability to the task at hand."

Mortius drew back slightly, but Pelion could still feel the icy chill of his gaze upon him.

"Go on," the hooded figure said.

Pelion shrugged, as if what he were saying were the most obvious thing in the world.

"The man has lost his spine," he said simply. "He cowers when he should stand tall, bleats like a frightened spring lamb when he should be roaring like a lion."

He watched as Mortius shifted slightly at his words, and fought to suppress a mental grin. For the first time ever, he seemed to have him on the back foot.

"And who would you have chosen?" Mortius said. "Our Lord's plan demanded him. For all the power of your faith, we needed a strong right arm. Who better than the King of Sparta?"

Pelion folded his arms firmly across his chest.

"You know very well who I would have chosen."

Mortius straightened slightly.

"Callisto is dead," he all but snapped.

"Is she?" Pelion said slyly.

"As good as," Mortius said firmly. "No one survives Pneuma poisoning. Not even her."

Pelion smiled darkly. He had the edge now. The power between them had shifted and he could sense that Mortius knew it too.

"And would the Olympians have chosen her if she were so easily killed?" he pushed. "Many before us have tried to do just that. By my reckoning, she has died at least twice already. It never seems to stick though."

Mortius regarded him for moment without speaking, then suddenly and without warning, he turned on his heel and began to stride toward the shadows stretching between the pillars. Pelion's smile widened victoriously.

"Tell me I am wrong!" He crowed triumphantly. "Tell me that Demosthenes was our Lord's will all along! That he was the correct choice and not Callisto! Tell me I am WRONG!"

"You are wrong," Mortius said without looking back, and then the shadows reached out and took him, leaving Pelion alone in the chamber once more.

He stood for long moments, luxuriating in his success, despite a familiar creeping pain growing between his temples.

"My Lord," he whispered to the empty air around him. "You would tell me if I were wrong wouldn't you? You would tell me if I had misinterpreted your wishes; if you did indeed favour Demosthenes." For a while silence was his only answer. Then it came to him, a voice both far away and yet strangely intimate at the same time, like the fingers of a lover running up his spine. Something had changed from how he remembered it however. It sounded clearer now, and louder too, as if the distance between Pelion and the unseen speaker were growing less and less with every day that passed.

"_You are not wrong," _Cronus whispered.

* * *

><p>The shadows had long been Mortius' companions, and for most of that time they had been all he had known, trapped as he had been in the strange twilight realm between the worlds of the living and the dead. When all memory of sensation, of sight and sound and smell and taste had failed him, they had been the one constant in his existence, his window back into a world where all those senses were still more than hazy imaginings and half formed dreams.<p>

Even after his Lord had come to him, whispering sweet promises of relief and revenge that cut through the nothingness that had surrounded him and drawing his attention and worship like a single blazing star against an eternity blackest night, the shadows had remained at his side. Indeed they had become more than his companions. They had become _him_. His arms, his legs, his feet and his hands. They had become his long forgotten senses, letting him see and hear in a way he had never been capable of before. Through their use he had learned to remember himself again, who he had been and what he had become, and as he had learned those things, so too had he learned how to hate again. That fire had blazed hot and hard inside him at first; a welcome relief from the years of senseless ennui in which he had been dwelling, but as the centuries passed, and the hate continued unabated, the nature of it changed. It became dark, brooding and chill, spreading through him and swallowing all other feelings and emotions of which he was still capable, leaving little in its wake save a dry husk. Even with his Lord's words for company and reassurance, the pain of his existence had begun to become excruciating.

Then Cronus had whispered to him again, telling him of the way back into the world of the living and how the opportunity would soon present itself. He had not been lying. First one god had died; the one Mortius later learned to have been named Strife. Then the woman Callisto had followed soon after, and their deaths had rocked the very foundations of existence, hammering hard on the barrier between worlds and opening a fissure between them, albeit one too narrow for him to squeeze through at first. It had not taken long for that crack to widen however, and eventually it had become large enough for him to slip back through to the world of the living.

His return had been more than a little jarring, at once both liberating and terrifying. The physical world was almost alien to him so long and he been absent from it, and the shadows had no longer been the sum total of him. In their place had returned those same sensations that he had long thought lost and that he had coveted even longer. The shadows themselves had remained, but merely as part of him, an extension of the cold, passionless hatred inside him in the same way that he himself was an extension of his Lord's will.

Now they were wrapped around him like a shield, hiding him from view as he lurked around the edges of what once been Sparta's Council Chambers. It was here that the Ephors, voted for by the Spartan people, had consulted with their generals; the so called Spartan Kings. The Ephors themselves were all dead now, as was one of their Kings. Only King Demosthenes remained, responsible as he was for the deaths of his compatriots.

Demosthenes himself was not faraway. He was seated on his throne that had been moved from its usual place at around the chamber's edge and placed on a raised platform at one end of the chamber. It was the same platform where the Ephors had once sat, and the significance of that was obvious. Before Demosthenes were standing two other men, both clad similarly to the other. They wore molded boiled leather breastplates with capes secured to their shoulders by bronze clasps and at their sides they carried heavy looking helmets, each one sporting a shortened crest. While their armour was identical, the capes and crests of their helmets were different, one being a chill winter blue, and the other a bright crimson. The clasps were slightly different too. Each one was fashioned with a different crest upon it. The man in blue wore the symbol of a charging bull, while the man in red wore the symbol of a roaring lion. Demosthenes' colours matched the man in blue, but the crest of the helmet at his side was far taller.

Silent and hidden from view, Mortius watched and listened as the men spoke.

"...still searching the countryside," the man in red was saying as Demosthenes slumped tiredly in his throne. "So far though, we have been unable to track Ithius or any of his group."

Next to him the man in blue snorted derisively, earning him a caustic glance from the man in red.

"I take it my report displeases you?" the man in red said.

"And does that astonish you?" the man in blue sneered. "Since you returned from Thermopylae, your record of service to King Demosthenes has been a litany of disappointments. You were Leonidas' most capable attendant, Sentos, yet you have consistently failed to bring to heal a band of ill trained peasants, slaves, and farm hands. One has to wonder just how much effort you are actually expending in this."

The man called Sentos glared daggers at the man in blue.

"_King_ Leonidas," he corrected him. The man in blue's eyes narrowed.

"I'm sorry?" he said dangerously, but Sentos did not appear to be in the least bit intimidated.

"I was in the service of _King_ Leonidas, Gracus," he said. "He died defending Sparta..."

"Treasonously defending Sparta," Gracus interjected. "In a battle unsanctioned by the Ephors or by King Demosthenes."

"Nevertheless, Sparta still stands because of his efforts," Sentos said from between clenched teeth. "You owe him his title at the very least."

"I owe traitors nothing!" Gracus all but spat, and was opening his mouth to speak again when Demosthenes raised his hand, a clear call for silence.

"_King_ Leonidas is deserving of our respect," he said magnanimously, but shooting Gracus a warning glance before turning to face Sentos. "Gracus is right however. Your failure to apprehend Ithius and his Helots is most troubling. When you swore your service to me, I expected your utmost commitment and devotion to my cause."

"And you have them Great King," Sentos said, bowing his head in a gesture of humility, but Mortius could see from the set of the man's shoulders that it was a stiff necked bow. Sentos did not like Demosthenes, and from the way Demosthenes was looking at him, it was clear that fact was not lost on the Spartan King either.

"Then why is it you still have not brought me the traitor Ithius' head?" Demosthenes said, leaning forward in his seat, his voice suddenly cold and imperious.

"The lands around Sparta are extensive, Great King" Sentos said, not lifting his gaze from the floor, "and they extend day by day as your patrols spread further north. It is too large a territory for what remains of my men to cover in its entirety, not to mention that the Helots know their lands better than us."

"_Their _lands?" Demosthenes said, tilting an eyebrow at Sentos. The red caped Spartan dipped his head lower.

"My apologies Great King. I misspoke. The lands are of course the property of Sparta. I simply meant that a great deal of the territory we are attempting to cover was once worked by the Helots, and they know the geography far better than my men."

Demosthenes settled back in his seat, and glanced toward Gracus.

"An understandable excuse," he said, steepling his hands before him, "but that is all that it is. An excuse. I have declared Ithius and his people traitors to Sparta. By our laws, such treachery is punishable only by death. By their continued existence they defy my supreme authority."

"I understand Great King," Sentos said. "I will ensure to it that they are brought to your justice."

Demosthenes shook his head.

"No," he said, looking to Gracus. "I think it is time we put a fresh mind to the task. Who would you recommend Captain?"

"Lieutenant Agrios," Gracus said without missing a beat, almost as if he had known the question was coming. "He is young, but ambitious and tenacious. He will not let the likes of Ithius stand between him and the opportunity prove himself to you Great King."

Demosthenes nodded as if the answer was of little real consequence to him.

"See to it he doesn't," he said. "I will not march our men north with our own lands still unsecured, and I tire of waiting for Ithius to be dealt with." The last comment came with a pointed look at Sentos who simply shifted uncomfortably where he stood.

"If I am not to continue the hunt for Ithius and his Helots, how then may I serve my King?" he said, a note of forced humility in his voice.

Demosthenes studied him carefully for a moment, a calculating frown etched across his features. Finally he spoke.

"There is one task you might attend to," he said. "I have received word that the northern city states have dispatched a diplomatic mission to ascertain my intentions now that I am the sole power in Sparta. Naturally, with Ithius and his Helots still at large, the roads can hardly be considered safe for them." He looked to Gracus. "Lieutenant Agrios was to meet with them was he not?"

Gracus nodded.

"He was,"

"Then the timing is perfect," Demosthenes said, returning his gaze to Sentos. "You will carry Agrios' new orders to him at Tryxis, then take his place and escort the mission back to the city."

Sentos snapped straight at his King's command. Whatever he might feel about Demosthenes personally, Mortius still noted the strong sense of discipline he possessed.

"How many men shall I command?" he said, his tone now rigid and formal.

"I think the mission's safety is of the utmost importance," Demosthenes said. "Wouldn't you agree Captain Gracus?"

Gracus nodded again. "Of the utmost, Great King," he said.

A small smile lit at the corners of Demosthenes' mouth.

"Lieutenant Orestes will accompany you," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious choice in the world. "His troops are fresh and he has much to prove..." he narrowed his eyes pointedly "...as do you."

Sentos dropped to one knee and bowed his head again.

"I shall not displease you again, Great King. I shall have the mission safely returned to Sparta, even if I have to give my own life in doing so."

"Let us hope that that is not necessary," Demosthenes said. "You are dismissed Captain."

Sentos rose to his feet and turned to leave. He was half way across the council chamber when Demosthenes called out to him again.

"Oh and Captain..." Sentos stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at Demosthenes warily.

"Yes Great King?" he said, a small knot of worry in his voice.

"I have not seen you, nor any of your men at the temple addresses," Demosthenes said. "Brother Pelion is most interested in meeting you."

Sentos visibly stiffened.

"Is that an order Great King?"

"Merely an observation," Demosthenes said with a wave of his hand. "A man's faith is his business and none of mine. He must find it on his own. Still, you should consider attending. Brother Pelion speaks well, and they can be most enlightening, I assure you."

"I will give it some consideration Great King," Sentos said.

Demosthenes gave a satisfied nod.

"Then you are dismissed," he said. Sentos all but ran from the chamber, much to the apparent amusement of Demosthenes.

"Great King," Gracus said, his head bowed respectfully as Demosthenes turned back to face him once Sentos was clear of the chamber.

"What is it Gracus?" the Spartan King said.

"I would never presume to question your judgement," Gracus began. "You are after all the supreme authority in Sparta..."

Demosthenes rolled his eyes.

"Don't grovel Gracus," he said. "I need soldiers, not toadying lackey's. If you have doubts then spit them out. I won't have my men mincing their words around me."

Gracus lifted his gaze to meet Demosthenes' and Mortius was surprised to see not even the slightest trace of humility behind them. Not only was Gracus ambitious it would seem, but also extremely self possessed. Enough to even stand eye to eye with the King of Sparta and proclaimed Strength of Cronus.

"Very well then," the Spartan Captain said, his voice now plain and no nonsense. "You have entrusted quite the task to him if you don't mind me saying. If anything is to go wrong it may lead us to war much sooner than we are ready for. Are you sure he can be trusted?"

"Don't be a fool Gracus," Demosthenes said. "Of course I can't trust him, but not for reasons of competence. He is still loyal to Leonidas, and though his King is dead, Sentos still stands by the same ideals, misguided though they are."

He clambered to his feet, stretching tiredly as he did so, and then walked to Gracus' side.

"Then why send him?" Gracus asked, frowning in confusion.

"Because it puts him in a position where his true loyalties will be revealed," Demosthenes replied. "He doesn't agree with my decision to take us to war, that much is clear. The level of his conviction less so. This diplomatic mission will test his resolve. If he is about to turn traitor on us, this will present the perfect for him to do so. If or when he does, we will be ready and waiting to dispatch him accordingly."

"Then why send Orestes with him?" Gracus said. "Why not send me? Sentos and his men would be easy enough for my troops to handle."

Demosthenes shook his head.

"I need you here with me, at least for the time being. Sparta is still not secure and your troops are needed to enforce the curfews. We have no idea how many of Ithius' spies might still be lurking out there."

"I still believe I could be of more use elsewhere," Gracus said.

Demosthenes shot him a sideways glance.

"In time," he said darkly. "Brother Pelion gathers more of Sparta to him each day, and soon we will be ready to sweep out across Greece in the name of Cronus _and_ Sparta. When that day comes, the Olympians will pay dearly for their abandonment of us."

Gracus nodded.

"I understand Great King," he said.

Demosthenes smiled.

"We are Brothers now you and I," he said. "You should use my other title."

"I understand, Brother Strength,"

Demosthenes' smile widened.

"Until the day of his Return then,"

Gracus straightened to attention.

"Until the day of his Return," he said, then turned on his heel and marched from the chamber, leaving Demosthenes alone at its centre.

Mortius watched from the shadows as he crossed back to his throne and picked up his helm, balancing it in the crook of his arm before preparing to leave.

Was Pelion right? Was Demosthenes really as cowed as the old priest claimed? He did not seem that way. From what Mortius had just observed he seemed confident and in control, but there was something else too; something that was slightly off about the Spartan King's manner, and it pressed gently against the doubts Pelion had managed to instill in him.

Mortius had not always been this way. Once he had been utterly self assured, confident in his faith and in his rightness. Recently that had changed though. It had started with Oracle, Miranda. She had been able to see through him in a way he had not expected, and her final words had touched something inside him. Was he really being lied to as she had claimed, and if so, by whom? Then there was Callisto. He had been so sure of her unsuitability for the rank of Strength that Pelion had wanted to try and bestow upon her. He had been convinced that Demosthenes was the correct choice... no... the _only_ choice. As a Spartan King, he brought a great deal of power with him, and his bitterness over the Spartan defeat at Marathon had made him an easy target for conversion to their faith... Once he had been turned, together he and Demosthenes had concocted a scheme that would see Demosthenes ascend to control all of Sparta. With the plan in place, they had begun to focus on how Demosthenes would then be able to use that power to further the aims of Cronus. It had taken weeks of effort and planning, maneuvering all the pieces into position and waiting for the perfect time to strike. Then, in a matter of days, Callisto had nearly undone it all, and if it had not been for Pelion's insight, she very well might have succeeded too.

Both had served to rattle his cast iron self confidence in different ways, and now it was compounded by the sudden absence of Cronus' voice from his thoughts. Where once he had spoken with his Lord constantly, recently he had had little communion with him, and it was beginning to trouble him more than he would openly admit.

Trying to put the unpleasant thoughts to the back of his mind, he reached out with his will, parting the shadows that enveloped him as easily as one parting a waterfall with their hands, then stepped out into the chamber.

"And when exactly will the day of his return be?" he asked, causing Demosthenes to start at his sudden arrival.

"Brother Mortius..." the Spartan King said, recovering from his surprise quickly. "...I don't believe I understand..."

"Don't," Mortius said simply, lifting his hand in a slicing gesture that cut Demosthenes off before he could even begin. "Your deceptions will not work on me, so do not even try. Why have you not marched on the northern city states? Brother Pelion grows impatient with your dallying..." he cocked his head slightly in a threatening manner. "...and so do I," he finished.

Demosthenes turned to face him more fully, and Mortius was surprised by the man's appearance. At this distance it was clear Demosthenes was unshaven, his jaw marked by hard grey lines of stubble, and his eyes – while still keen – were red rimmed and bloodshot.

"You were watching me I take it?" Demosthenes said, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin.

"Don't be evasive," Mortius said. "Answer the question. Why have you not marched as you said you would; as we _planned_ you would."

"You were listening," Demosthenes replied. "Ithius and his Helots are still on the loose. While they are hampering our efforts here, I cannot march north."

"Brother Pelion says that he is ready, and that if we delay much longer the faith of our Lord's Followers will begin to wane," Mortius said challengingly.

"Brother Pelion has never led men into battle," Demosthenes countered. "I have, and I know all that can go wrong should an assault be made prematurely. I will not risk a defeat based solely on his impatience."

Mortius studied him carefully. There was defiance in Demosthenes' voice; spirit too, but there was also a faint tremor of nervousness, and a single bead of sweat had begun to roll mockingly down his temple.

Mortius leaned forward, the shadows around him crawling across the floor toward Demosthenes like the searching claws of a blind and hungry animal.

"Pelion was right about you," he said quietly, his tone barely above a dry rasp. "You stink of fear. The question is of whom? Myself or Ithius?"

Demosthenes' jaw clenched tightly and his expression hardened.

"I fear no man," he said firmly and Mortius straightened.

"You deem these delays necessary then?" he said.

Demosthenes nodded.

"I do."

"Then see to it that adequate preparations are made," Mortius replied said, and turned to walk back toward the shadows, the doubts still scratching at the back of his thoughts. "Neither myself nor our Lord will be made to wait much longer."

* * *

><p>The Helot camp was much as they had left it the night before, Ithius observed as his horse clattered into the overgrown yard of what had once been a woodsman's cottage. Creepers and vines crawled across the low lying building's drystone walls and its old thatch roof was desperately in need of patching, but it had four solid walls and enough rough remaining to provide a reasonable degree of shelter, making it a solid centre point for the camp that surrounded it. All around the cottage were a wide array of dwellings, ranging from small covered lean-to's, through tents and bivouacs, and even up to makeshift shacks constructed from felled trees. Thin trails of smoke still hung in the air from the morning's cooking fires, and people were moving back and forth among the tents and shanties going about their daily chores. Around the camp, the edges of the forest had been pushed back as the camp had expanded over the last month, and with the latest new arrivals, the refugees here now numbered nearly two hundred.<p>

Two hundred.

The thought was a sobering one. Two hundred survivors were all that seemingly remained of a population that had once numbered in the many thousands. Ithius clutched tightly to his mount's reins, his jaw working in impotent frustration. There had to be more survivors out there. There just had to be. The alternative was simply too dreadful to imagine... or for his already burdened conscience to bear.

Out of the corner of his eye he spied his old wagon alongside one of the half ruined dry stone walls that had once marked the boundary of the cottage's yard. It stood empty and unattended now. He had taken a detour in returning here, backtracking and then changing directions in an attempt to throw off any potential pursuers. Clearly Athelis and his men had been decidedly less cautious, having already beaten him back to the camp.

With an angry growl he swung down from his horse's saddle. A number of Helots ran up to take the animal from him but he waved them back.

"I don't need servants," he snapped irritably at them. "I'm not some lord you need to bow and scrape to. Now, go and make yourselves useful somewhere else."

The Helots nodded and quickly disappeared back into the bowels of the camp while Ithius shook his head sadly. Once his people had had a fire in them, a desire for freedom from Spartan rule so fierce that the Ephors themselves had feared what they might be capable of. Demosthenes' vicious coup and subsequent culling of the Helot population had left Ithius' people traumatised. The few survivors were falling back on what was familiar to them, and seemed to have elevated Ithius himself to the rank of saviour. It was an honour of which he felt wholly undeserving, especially since their current plight could be laid almost entirely at his door. Every time one of the others bowed to him, or tried to serve him in some manner, only served to drive the dagger-like guilt he felt deeper into his heart. He had only wanted them to be free, and now look at them...

He began to lead his horse across the yard to a small hitching post beside the wagon, doing his best to push the bleak thoughts to the back of his mind. He did not have the luxury of allowing himself to be maudlin and self pitying. He could drown his sorrows when he had seen his people to safety, if indeed that day ever even came. It took him a moment to realise one of the Helots had not returned to the camp as he had instructed, and was instead following close on his heels. It was Crius, the de facto leader of the small band of Helots they had rescued that morning.

"What is it?" he said, not looking up as he attached a feedbag to his mounts snout, scratching the animal placatingly behind the the ears as he did so.

"I just wanted to speak with you," Crius said, shifting uncomfortably as he did so. He could clearly feel the tension hanging in the air around Ithius.

"Is it urgent?" Ithius asked, patting his horse one final time before turning to face the nervous Helot.

"I'm not sure," Crius replied.

Ithius only shrugged.

"Then it will have to wait I'm afraid," he said as he caught sight of Drogo over the other man's shoulder. "I'm afraid I have other business to attend to." Without any further explanation he strode past Crius, who simply nodded.

"Later then," the Helot said and Ithius gave him a vague nod, his attention already focused on Drogo. He caught up to the other man as he was striding between a row of tents and reached out to catch him by the arm.

"Ithius!" Drogo said, sounding surprised as he turned to catch sight of him for the first time. "I was beginning to wonder when you'd be getting back."

"I had to make sure we weren't being followed," he said, then hooked his thumb back over his shoulder toward the battered old wagon.

"Where is he Drogo?"

Drogo only gave a long suffering sigh.

"Maybe you should leave it this time," he said. "He did just save your life after all."

"Like Tartarus I will," Ithius snapped. "People are dead Drogo. People who didn't have to be, and Athelis and his little band of sycophants are the ones responsible. Now tell me where he is."

Drogo regarded Ithius silently for a moment then shrugged.

"Where he always is," he said. "Watching _her_."

Ithius grunted and turned to stalk back toward the cottage, Drogo following close behind him.

"What is it with the two of you anyway?" the squat Helot said. "You've been at each others throats since we came here. As far as I can figure it, Athelis is only trying to help."

"Help?" Ithius sneered disgustedly. "He's not trying to help Drogo. He's just using us as a means to an end. He doesn't care what becomes of me, or you, or any one else here. What he did today, he did as easily as you and I draw breath. Still think I should try and play nice with someone like that?"

Drogo did not answer.

Still angry, Ithius turned and started walking again, Drogo falling silently into step to his rear.

Inside, the cottage smelled musty and dank, but it remained the one good bit of shelter the camp offered and as such, the one good place _she _could be kept. The two men entered through the front door and moved quickly down the main hall, ignoring the first couple of doors on either side of them and marching for a second set of doors further down. Without even pausing, Ithius reached up and shoved the door on the right open so roughly that it banged loudly against the wall within the room beyond as he passed through it.

The sight before him was no different to how it usually was. A simple old wooden frame bed with an uncomfortable looking straw mattress had been placed against one of the room's walls. Next to the bed sat an end table, and piled on it in a jumble was a collection of black leather battle gear, held together by thick stitching, silver studs and scraps of finely linked mail. On the bed itself lay a young woman dressed in a simple plain woolen shift with a tattered but otherwise clean blanket laid across her for warmth. Her hair was long and blonde, and it rested about her head and shoulders in a thick tangle. Her features were sharp and narrow, and her brow was knotted in a pained expression while her eyes darted rapidly back and forth beneath closed lids. Those same eyes were darkly ringed and sunken, and her lips were dry and cracked. Occasionally a low murmur would escape from between them, but otherwise she lay still. She was unconscious, and still completely non-responsive it would seem. Not even the loud bang of the door managed to stir her from her torpor.

Her name was Callisto, and she had been this way ever since Ithius and Athelis had brought her to this place nearly a month ago after she had been left to drown in an underground lake of a hallucinogenic substance called Pneuma.

Athelis himself was seated close to the side of the bed, watching the rise and fall of the unconscious woman's chest with a glazed look in his eyes, as if his thoughts were far away.

"There's been no change," he said simply without looking around.

"There never is," Ithius said, crossing the room to stand beside him. "Do you honestly think sitting here brooding will change that?"

Athelis turned to face him, a curious expression that Ithius could not quite read on his face.

"It might," he said with a curious expression on his face that Ithius could not quite read.

"What did you think you were doing today?" he asked.

Athelis folded his arms.

"Saving your life," he said flatly. "Why do you ask?"

"You know why," Ithius said. Athelis only shrugged in return. It was a gesture he did often, and it made Ithius want to punch him in the face.

"I gave you an order," he said, doing his best to keep his voice even and patient. It was a sterner challenge than he'd imagined. Something about Athelis managed to aggravate him so much that he always felt about half an inch from trying to strangle him.

"And I disobeyed," Athelis replied. "You're still alive in case you hadn't noticed. You're welcome by the way."

"You expect a round of applause?"

"A touch of gratitude wouldn't go amiss."

"You murdered innocent people!" Ithius all but exploded, his temper finally boiling over. "You turned what should have been a quick and quiet rescue into a bloodbath!"

Athelis shot up from the stool as if someone had just stuck him with a red hot poker, his eyes blazing furiously.

"Oh wake up Ithius!" he snapped. "You think you can save these people without getting your hands dirty? How much longer will it take you to learn you can't pet a rabid dog and not get bitten."

Ithius' eyes narrowed darkly.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he said.

"You think everyone is secretly noble? That deep down they'll always do the right thing? The honourable thing? Thinking like that will get you dead quicker than standing against Persian cavalry with a washboard and a toothpick! Those people I killed that you're so cut up about? Those townsfolk today weren't noble or trustworthy. They might not have been about to kill you, but they were about to do the next best thing, so I did what I had to do. I may have got a little bloody doing it, but if I hadn't we wouldn't even be standing here now to have a shouting match about it."

Ithius took a step toward him, his fists clenched hard at his side.

"Let's get one thing straight, here and now," he said, gritting his teeth hard to keep from snarling at the other man. "I am in charge of this camp. The people here look to me to see them to safety, and I will not let them down, do you hear me? Not again! So, when I give you an order, I expect it to be followed. If you can't do that, then you should leave now. I won't waste any more time with you and your private vendetta."

"And how do you plan on getting them to safety?" Athelis shot back, ignoring Ithius' not so subtle accusation. "We both know the Spartans have every major route out of their territory blocked. Its only a matter of time before they find this place and then what will you do?"

"Tryxis was one option!" Ithius snapped. "The Spartans didn't have it watched yet, and as much power as he has on land, Demosthenes fares less well at sea. After your little stunt today though, I doubt the people there will be welcoming any of us with open arms."

"Which leaves you only one other option..." Athelis began, only to have Ithius shake his head before he could even begin.

"I'm not having this conversation with you again," he said firmly. "We don't have the numbers or the trained troops to mount any kind of resistance."

"That's the beauty of it!" Athelis interjected, his voice suddenly taking on that edge of dark enthusiasm that always gave Ithius chills when he heard it. "We don't need numbers or training! Demosthenes is spreading himself thin. His forces are big and slow! Ours are small, quick and mobile. We can hit the Spartans hard and fast and be gone before they can even respond. We can pick them apart, or at the very least slow them down and buy time for the other Greek cities to organise against them."

Ithius shook his head again.

"We can't keep having this same argument," he said. "You know we can't absorb the casualties that they can. Demosthenes has reserves of soldiers that we could never hope to match. If even one of these assaults your proposing went badly for us, it would be devastating. We'd never recover from it."

Athelis fixed Ithius with a steady stare.

"Then we'd have to make sure it didn't go badly wouldn't we," he said. Ithius could only roll his eyes in response.

"You can't win this thing without risk, Ithius," the mercenary pressed on. "But your people need this! I mean, look at them!" He gestured toward a window that looked out over the camp. Outside Ithius could see fleeting glimpses of Helots among the tents. As one they looked, broken, dejected and defeated. He swallowed tightly

"They think they've already lost!" Athelis continued. "They need a victory! If you'd let me and mine off the leash, we could give that to you."

Ithius turned back from the window to look Athelis over appraisingly. There was a pleading expression on the other man's face that made his argument seem genuine, as if he was simply trying to help the only way he knew how, but there, behind the eyes as always, was that other look. It was a dark, hungry look, the same as the one he had noted several times in Callisto. It had made him uneasy in dealing with her, and that had not changed with Athelis.

"No," he said firmly. "I won't put any more of my people at risk than I have to, and there's too much of that in what you're proposing."

Athelis ground his teeth together in frustration.

"People are going to die, Ithius," he said imploringly. "You can't avoid that. Surely its better they do it on their feet than on their knees?"

Ithius shook his head one last time. "You have my answer Athelis. I'm not going to change it."

Athelis' expression changed in an instant, the mask of desperate pleading vanishing to be replaced by a look of complete and utter fury.

"You promised me," he snarled at Ithius. "You said that if I helped you, you would help me. I can give you victory Ithius, but only if you help me get mine!"

"And how is it a victory if none of us are left to see it?" Ithius asked. The question was supposed to be rhetorical but Athelis answered anyway.

"It will be a victory when Pelion is dead," he said darkly. "Him and everyone like him."

Ithius said nothing. Instead he simply turned away and began to make for the door out of the room, Drogo falling into step at his side.

"You promised me!" Athelis shouted again, but Ithius only ignored him.

He paused for a brief moment in the doorway as behind him he heard Callisto let out a soft moan from where she lay, tortured and sweating in the bed. He glanced back over his shoulder at her, but she did not stir again. With a heavy sigh he stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him and leaving Athelis to his brooding.

"You know, much as we might have a problem with his motivations, you've got to admit, the guy does have a point," Drogo said as they walked back out into the camp. Ithius glanced up at the sky. The thick grey cloud cover appeared to be growing darker. It looked like they were going to be in for still more rain today.

"Please tell me you aren't buying into his nonsense," he said, turning his gaze back to Drogo. "It's hard enough dealing with him and that little gang he's put together without having to keep an eye on you as well."

The squat man shrugged.

"We aren't doing so well these days, Ithius," he said. "I know you're not so blind as to have not noticed, but the others, well, they're starting to talk like we're finished already. Maybe a bit of a fight is what they need. Maybe it will help put some spirit back into them."

Ithius let out a long low breath.

"Maybe," he said. "But if it's a war you're all wanting, you can find someone else to lead it. I'm done seeing my friends die."

With that he turned and walked off into the mass of tents and shanties. He head other business he needed to be about, and he had enough of thinking about death and defeat for one day.

* * *

><p>Athelis peered out of the window at Ithius' disappearing back, his fingers wrapped in a death grip around the window ledge, his teeth still clenched tightly together.<p>

Ithius had promised him his aid, and now he was denying him precisely that. Why had he even agreed to any of this? He should have known the Helots did not have the spine to follow through and take the fight to the Spartans and Pelion's Followers. The few of them who saw sense had already joined with him, and he was grateful for their help, but they were not enough. He needed more; more armour, more horses, more weapons, more people! If only he could convince Ithius, he knew that he could find the window of opportunity they needed. The Spartans were tough, it was true. But even the best warriors clad in the strongest armour and carrying the finest Hephaestus forged steel could still be dropped if you found the right gap in their defenses; the right chink through which to slip a dagger. All he needed was one chance – just one – and he could end this brewing war before it had chance to truly begin.

Could he not?

He felt the muscles in his jaw begin to unclench and his hands release their grip on the window ledge as the anger he felt toward

Ithius began to drain out of him. If he was being truthful with himself, he had to admit that Ithius might be right. The Helots numbered less than two hundred. Even with the advantages in mobility that that afforded them, Ithius was not wrong when he said how a single loss could devastate them. It was one thing to try and give someone a hope of victory if you honestly believed it was achievable. It was quite another to do it when you knew for a fact that such a victory was actually nigh on impossible.

He turned back to Callisto, and gave a pained swallow.

"Why did you have to go and get yourself like this?" he said. "I could really use you about now."

She had been his best chance. He had known that then, and he still knew it now if he forced himself to admit it. On his own, Pelion may as well be as far out of reach as the sun. With her help though...

He reached inside his jerkin and pulled out the heavy amulet Pelion had given him. As usual, when he looked at the black set obsidian stone, he felt a strange tugging in the back of his mind. Dark thoughts of his long dead wife, Corrina, and the temple of Asclepius burning filled his head, causing his heart to quicken and bile to rise in the back of his throat.

He crossed to the side of the bed, holding the amulet out in front of him as he had done a dozen times before. Callisto stirred as the black stone drew closer to her, her top lip peeling back in rictus snarl, while her breathing changed from long but shallow breaths to a series of short, gasping pants.

Athelis held the amulet their for longer than he had ever done before, and the longer it was that he held it above her, the more agitated Callisto seemed to grow. She twisted on the bed, her back arching and her fingers digging into the sheets, then suddenly, without warning, her eyes flashed open and turned to fix Athelis with a look of maniacal glee.

"Hello there deary," she smiled nastily at him, her voice at once so familiar to Athelis, yet at the same time strangely different, laced as it was with a keen, sadistic edge.

He was so startled he dropped the amulet, the heavy gold chain and stone clattering loudly to the floorboards. He bent quickly to retrieve it, his hands suddenly clammy and his brow slick with cold sweat. Grasping the amulet tightly, he straightened, but Callisto had already settled back to the sheets, her eyes closed once more and her breathing back to its usual rhythm.

Athelis swallowed nervously, and tucked the amulet back into his jerkin. Had Pelion really been telling him the truth when he had handed it to him? Could it really bring her back? But if it did, and he used it, did that mean Pelion had won? Could he afford to take that chance?

Could any of them?

Trying to put the thoughts to the back of his mind, he crossed back to the window to stare out at the Helot camp, wiping the chill sweat from his brow as he did so.

As he watched them go about their daily chores, he felt his determination growing. He could do this. He could take these people and make the Spartans fear them, and when he did Pelion would finally be his.

Behind him, Callisto moaned softly to herself.

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Here's another update, a little quicker this time as I'm beginning to get back into the feel of things after my short hiatus, and the story is starting to come to me more easily now. I know the story has been a little Callisto light so far, but bare with me and you'll get a big dose of her in the next chapter. In the meant time, hope you are all enjoying it.<p> 


	4. Chapter Three: Faceless

**Chapter Three: Faceless**

The village was not Cirra, but it certainly could have doubled for it.

Callisto was seated astride her horse atop a nearby hill overlooked the small, pastoral community laid out on the plain before her. Her hands wrapped tightly around the animal's reins, and her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the scene playing out below. A thick layer of tension hung in the air all about her, and her mount reacted to it, snorting and prancing nervously. Callisto just dug her knees viciously into its sides. The animal tossed its head and snorted again, but quickly fell silent and still once more, save for the occasional whinny. Callisto ignored its pitiful protests as her mind turned over what she was seeing.

From the foot of the hill, a group of vicious looking warriors had begun to advance up the close packed dirt trail that led straight into the village square, and Callisto could practically feel their murderous intent. It was a sensation not unfamiliar to her, and it seemed to radiate of these men in wave after wave. She tried to revel in that feeling now, in that blissful, blood-soaked exhilaration as she had done so many times before, but this time something was different. The sight of the men beneath her about to fall upon the unsuspecting town did not excite her the same way it once would have... the same way it once had... Instead, she felt sick to her stomach, the grim tableau before her serving as a stark reminder of the night she had watched her own home burn at the hands of people just like this.

And just like her.

Strangely though, there was something else crawling beneath the queasiness in her gut; another feeling that fed off the first. It was a sense of dark anticipation so strong that it was almost frightening. These men would burn the village to the ground, conduct acts of wanton pillage and murder, and when they did, Callisto knew that she would derive some perverse sense of pleasure from it.

She frowned suddenly.

Wasn't that the way it should be...

...The way it always had been?

Maybe that had been true once, and even not so long ago come to that, but much had happened in her life since then, and the more she thought about it, the more she realised that while it might bring her some small sense of gratification, the destruction of this village would not give her the satisfaction she wanted, or the peace she so desperately craved. It never had before after all. That sense of hungry anticipation would not go away though. Instead it lurked, coiled and snakelike in the pit of her churning stomach.

In the valley below, the warriors had already begun to go to work. They fell upon the unsuspecting village like jackals closing in for the kill on their weak and wounded prey. Their assault was savage and brutal, and Callisto could just make out the distant figures of villagers running this way and that between the buildings as a wave of panic began to sweep through them. Some were already trying to make for the hills, but the warriors had spread out to set up a perimeter line around the edge of the village that would easily catch any and all who tried to escape. Those that chanced took their chances were given no mercy and were brutally dispatched. In the heart of the village itself, some of its inhabitants were trying in vain to mount a defence. They wielded whatever they could find as weapons; rakes, hoes, pitchforks and the like, but none of them could truly hope to match the seasoned fighters they were faced with.

Somewhere on the far side of the village, a pillar of smoke began to rise into the air, the first signs of the granaries being set alight. Callisto's frown deepened. How had she known it had been a granary being burned? She could not make out the buildings clearly from this distance, but there was a growing sense of familiarity to all of this and it was telling her that it was indeed a granary building that had just burned. If she was right, another building would go up soon too, this one on the opposite side of town. The two fires would spread quickly, she remembered, although she could not remember where the memory came from. Even as she tried, the gleeful hunger stirred inside her as she pictured those same flames in her minds eye, licking hot and hard at the heavens and filling the air with a thick, choking layer of smoke that would only serve to deepen the already delicious chaos. Wisps of that smoke began to climb gently skyward at precisely the spot she had predicted, and she frowned again. It was all as if she had been here before... as if she had done this before... but when? And Why?

Somewhere in the distance, she heard a cruel, mocking laughter, and the sound of it drove her to stir herself and her horse into action. She knew now what it was that she must do. Nothing less than her hate and need for vengeance against Xena demanded it. Silently, she gritted her teeth and drew her sword in one hand, booting her mount to the gallop as she thundered down the hillside and up the trail into the increasingly frantic melee that now had the village in its vice like grip. Her top lip curled upward in a cruel snarl as her horse's hooves pounded against the packed dirt, and she gripped the animal's reins hard between the fingers of her left hand, her sword clutched tightly in her right as it cleaved a thin line through the smoke that drifted all about her. She hurtled between the buildings of the village, there walls little more than muddied brown streaks as she passed between them, only to suddenly rocket out into the square, her hair whipping madly about her as she reined her mount in tightly and took in the battle all about her.

The warriors, clad in dark, mismatched armour and wielding cruel looking weapons of all shapes and sizes, were going about their deadly business with ease, and all around them the villagers had already begun to fall in droves. Now she was in among the fighting, Callisto felt her pulse quicken in her chest, her eyes widening in surprise, and discomfort as she got her first real look at the inhabitants of the village.

They were, to a man, faceless.

Where there should have been eyes, mouths and noses, they instead possessed only blank masks of flesh; dull and impassive and each one utterly indistinguishable from the next. The more she stared at them, the more they seemed to blend together, and almost too quickly they had become little more to her than a teeming mass; one with no identity save than to serve as chattel to be mown down with impunity. Something about that thought caused an uneasy stirring at the back of her mind, but it was quickly silenced by the mad, cackling laughter that was growing in intensity with each passing moment and that she could not shut out no matter how hard she tried.

As the men – her men she now recalled, although she could not quite work out exactly how she knew that – continued their bloody work, Callisto heeled her horse to the gallop once more. A small group of the strange faceless creatures had detached from the mob and were attempting to escape the village square. The smoke seemed to part like the curtains on a stage for her as she rode the fleeing faceless down. Her blade caught the first of them, a larger figure dressed in ragged brown labourers clothes, with a keen cross cut that sent the faceless staggering a couple of steps, before it collapsed to the ground in a heap. All the while, it did not so much as scream or cry out, but Callisto barely even took the time to notice. Her mind was focused now, her purpose clear. So far, the path to Xena had been paved with corpses. What were a few more bodies in the grand scheme of it all?

Her horse carried her past the group and she yanked hard on the reins, pulling the animal up short and spinning it on the spot so that she could make another pass. The fleeing faceless had already turned and were trying to make an escape in the opposite direction. With a banshee wail, Callisto dug in her heels and rode at them again. There were only two remaining now. One taller, and one shorter, their hands clasped tightly together as they ran. As the ceaseless drumming of her horse's hooves began to bear down on them, they seemed to panic. In a single instant they had released their grip on each other and were beginning to separate, the smaller of the two attempting to bolt left while the larger was attempting to escape to the right. It was a critical mistake. The gap between them now was just wide enough for she and her mount to pass directly between them, and pass between them she did. As she flashed through the gap, she laid about herself to either side with her sword, laying low both of the fleeing faceless with almost sickening ease.

Reining her horse in again, she lifted her sword, her tight slipped snarl, changing to a gleeful grin as shining arterial crimson glistened back at her. Whatever they were, whatever they had been, these faceless creatures bled just fine. The laughter in her head went from gleeful cackling, to a dark and disdain filled chuckle, and she did her best to shut it out as she vaulted easily from the back of her horse, her boots meeting the ground with a heavy crunch.

Ignoring the chaos around her, she began to stride purposefully toward the shorter of the two bodies she had just slain, the morbid anticipation she had been feeling unfurling inside her to become a sense of perverse satisfaction.

And then she froze.

The figure lying on the ground was no longer faceless. Instead, the glassy eyes of a small boy stared back at her. They were a clear crystal blue that she could almost imagine had once shone with life and the innocence of childhood. Now though they, were cold, empty and unseeing.

Around her the faceless continued to be murdered by the dozen, and Callisto felt as if ice were running through her veins, so chill was the sudden realisation. She remembered now! She had done all of this before! This boy had died on the end of her sword when she had attacked the village the first time, and now she was doing it again, reliving it exactly as she had done back then. She looked at the buildings surrounding her as she saw the fires that had been set earlier begin to take hold. Soon they would blaze so completely out of control that nothing would be able to stop them, and when they did, this whole town would be reduced to little more than a memory.

That was all this was, she realised. Just a memory.

Her memory.

Nearby another of the faceless seemed to change before her eyes as it came under attack from a burly looking figure wearing little more than leather pants, a harness and boiled leather pot helm with nose and eye guards that masked their features. The faceless became an old woman, kneeling in the dirt and raising her shaking hands in fear as if she would be able to ward off her attacker's sword strike.

"STOP!" Callisto yelled.

The burly figure arrested his attack just in time, turning to regard her with a questioning look in his eyes. She wasted no time in starting toward him, gripping her sword tightly at her side as she did so. So far all was unfolding as it had the first time, and there was a part of her that wanted it to do just that again now. There was something else though now, something different that she knew she had not felt before. It was a curious and nagging sense of unease that this was not how she should let things happen this time, and that if she did not act now to change them, something even more terrible would be waiting for her.

"Let her live!" she snapped at the man.

The big man cocked his head at her curiously.

"Why?" he said,

Callisto frowned, unable to think of an answer immediately. This was not what was supposed to happen, nor was it what had happened last time. Something had changed, but she knew it was not the big man. He had been here the first time, but her recollection was still hazy and unclear. His voice was little more then a heavy bass rumble that stirred memories inside her, and without thinking - almost instinctively even - she reached up and yanked the helmet from the man's head. A thick mass of curled black hair tumbled out from under it, framing a face with wide features, a mouth with almost non existent lips, and small, greedy eyes.

"Theodorus!?" She said, unable to quite believe what she was seeing. "But how... how is this..." Her gaze narrowed as her surprise turned to anger at the sight of the big warrior. Back in the early days of her battles against Xena, this man had been her chief lieutenant. He had been a lunk of a man really, not terribly bright and only moderately skilled in the art of war, but he made up for it with a kind of dull charisma that had helped her keep the more savage members of her army in line.

He should have been long gone by now, out of her life and consigned only to her past. Somehow though, here he was, standing before as if she had never even... She set her jaw and stepped forward, tossing her sword to one side and yanking the dagger she had always used to carry at her hip free, jabbing the point of it up under the exposed skin beneath his chin. "Now this is most upsetting," she said, her voice low and threatening. "I killed you. I know I did. I slit your throat and I enjoyed it when I did. Yet somehow, here you are again..." She jabbed a finger against the muscles of his bare chest. "Care to tell me how that's possible?"

"Kill me you did," Theodorus nodded, his face an impassive mask. "You did a good job of it too. All quick and messy. I should be a rotting bloated corpse somewhere by now, but then again, when did you ever let a little thing like death stop _you _before?"

Callisto's mouth curled up in a tight sneer.

"I'm the one asking the questions here! You're not the only thing that's supposed to be dead and gone," she gestured to the village at her back. "This whole place is! I burned it to the ground as a message to Xena and you helped me do it! We absolutely cannot be here, but here we are anyway, going through the motions like its the first time all over again." She tightened her grip on the dagger. "So, I'm going to ask again..." she continued, her voice dropping dangerously. "And this time, I'm going to be decidedly less polite. What are you and where am I? What is this place and why am I here?"

Theodorus looked back at her, his eyes shining with disdain. Something was wrong with this. Theodorus had been terrified of her. All of her men had. He would never have had the spine to stare her down as he was doing now.

"I don't have to answer your questions," he said.

"Oh?" Callisto sneered dangerously, cocking her head slightly as she pressed the dagger tip still harder under her former lieutenant's chin until a thin rivulet of blood ran down the blade of her sword. He may not be afraid of her now, but she was certain she could change all that. "I think that maybe you do."

Theodorus smiled darkly at her and reached out, grasping her hands tightly in his, his grip firmer than cast iron. "You killed me once already," he said. "What do I have to fear from you now?" Callisto winced as his fingers bit into her flesh, and she tried to pull back, but Theodorus' strength was too great, and he held her fast.

"What are you..." she began, but before she could finish he cut her off, leaning in close, twisting the dagger in her hands so that its edge was placed in a horizontal line across his throat.

"You're not in charge around here anymore, Callisto," he said darkly. "I don't have to take orders from you. Only from _her."_ Suddenly, and completely without warning, he yanked her hands sideways, forcing her to drag the dagger in a vicious cross cut that opened his throat as easily as if she were slicing through grass.

Callisto felt the sticky warmth of his blood flowing over her hands, and stepped back, releasing her grip on the dagger as if it were made of red hot steel. Theodorus simply stood staring back at her, as if the gaping open wound in his throat were nothing more than an inconvenience. Callisto watched the ghastly figure spin on the spot, whipping his sword up over his head as the old woman began to cower at his feet once more.

"I said STOP!" Callisto yelled in desperation, but it made no difference. Theodorus' sword fell like a hammer, and as the old woman crumpled in the dirt. Callisto felt her stomach lurch as the world seemed to tilt maddeningly all about her. She cast her eyes across the chaos that surrounded them and felt her head spin. She had done this. All of it. It was her who had brought this army together, her who had unleashed it, and her that had reveled in the blood it had spilled, and all for what? Some deluded quest for vengeance that had ultimately left her broken and hollow? If she had not done any of those things, then none of this would be happening now. Suddenly Theodorus seemed to represent all of that to her; a living manifestation of all that she had ever done wrong. She could feel her frustration and anger building now, and the pounding laughter in her head seemed to be approaching a crescendo.

Without thinking, she stooped low, sweeping the bloodied dagger up out of the dirt and spinning the blade up into a ready position. Then, with a terrific scream of white hot fury, she flung herself at the big warrior

Theodorus did not so much as flinch as she barreled into him, the dagger flashing briefly between them as she plunged it deep into his gut. The force of their impact span them bother around before dropping them sprawling in the dirt. Callisto recovered quickly. Even as Theodorus rolled onto his back, readying himself to stand once more, she scrambled upright to seat herself astride him, thighs straddling his chest while her knees pinned his arms in the dirt. Theodorus' mouth split in a dark smile that revealed broken and bloodied teeth. The sight of his victorious grin only served to infuriate her even more. She yanked the dagger free from his stomach, and then struck again, higher this time as she angled it straight for his heart. The blade cut cleanly, Callisto ramming it home with such force that is disappeared right up to the hilt. With a furious scream she pulled it free once more, then struck again, and again, and again, and over and over until her arms ached from the effort and Theodorus' chest was little more than a bloodied mess.

Finally, her fury completely spent, she collapsed back off him, her chest heaving with exhaustion, the blood soaked dagger tumbling from between limp fingers to land beside her in the dirt.

Suddenly she realised something was amiss. The screams of the villagers, the dry crackle of the flames, and the hollering of the warriors had all fallen silent. Now the only sound was that of her own panted breaths coming in rhythm with the rise and fall of her chest. Even that haunting mad cackle inside her head seemed to have stopped. She looked up from Theodorus' bloodied corpse to see that the massacre of the village had stopped too. Instead, the villagers, all of them still little more than faceless shells, had gathered in a circle around her, those smooth blank masks of flesh regarding her with an almost glacial coolness.

From behind her, there came the sound of slow, mocking applause.

"Oh yes," came a familiar voice that she immediately recognised as her own. "That was most well done my sweet."

Callisto scrabbled back to her feet, her blood slick hands leaving sticky prints in the dirt as she turned to get a look at the newcomer.

It was her own mirror image that grinned back at her.

The other her was seated on a low lying wall nearby. Her hands were pressed to the wall's surface on either side of her, and her legs were crossed girlishly at the ankles. She was clad in the same black leather battledress as Callisto herself wore, and her hair, always long and wild, was held back from her temples by a twin set of braids made from the same black leather as the rest of her armour. She leaned forward toward Callisto, her mouth split in that predatory smile Callisto had long since mastered. It was one she had that showed way too many teeth.

On the one hand, Callisto knew she should be surprised by this; stunned even, but on the other, there was something familiar to it all at the same time. She felt like she had done this before, dozens if not hundreds of times, but try as she might, she could not recall any of them.

She could not think of anything to say either. Instead she stood, stock still and mute. Even without eyes, the steady gazes of the faceless all about her seemed to drill right down to her core, robbing of her of her wits even as the other her's grin widened. It was almost as if she could sense Callisto's growing unease.

"Felt good, didn't it?" the other her continued, hopping down off the wall in a sprightly fashion, and sauntering confidently up to Callisto. "To unleash me again. To let me back in the same way that you used to. You've been doing it less and less of late, and I was starting to get bored."

As she approached, she nodded toward the bloodied corpse of Theodorus where it lay, savaged and broken in the mud. "Poor Theodorus though," she cooed softly as she reached Callisto's side, her hand reaching out to brush tenderly against Callisto's cheek as she passed her. Callisto flinched away from the other woman's touch as if someone were trailing a live adder across her face. The other her just ignored her.

"He was never the sharpest tool in the kit was he?" she continued, "But he did his job nevertheless. He worked hard, kept the others in line, and he was loyal as a love sick house dog..."

She crossed past Callisto to squat beside the corpse, lifting the bloodied dagger that Callisto had dropped earlier between her slim fingers to regard it with a careful, measured gaze. For a moment all was stillness and silence, then the other her gave a small shrug and leaned over to wipe the dagger clean on dead man's leather pants.

"...and then you killed him," she said simply as she straightened and began to cross back to Callisto. "You slit his throat and left him to die in the dirt." she cocked her head slightly at Callisto in a questioning manner. "Did you ever even ask yourself why you did that?"

The devilish grin had disappeared from the other her's face now. Instead her brow was knitted in what seemed to be genuine thoughtfulness. She reached out and took Callisto by the hand, the blood that had been staining Callisto's fingers now straining the other hers' hand as well as she pressed the dagger back into Callisto's grip.

"It was because of the others," Callisto said defensively. "I was in Xena, and they didn't want to follow me. They thought I wouldn't hurt them."

She glanced past her doppelgänger toward Theodorus' body and shrugged in a similar manner to the way the other her had done just moments before.

"Theodorus convinced them otherwise," she said, but it sounded half-hearted even to her.

The doppelgänger took a step back from her, those insane brown eyes narrow and appraising as she lifted her hands to clasp them together just above her chest. She tapped thoughtfully at her lips with her bloodied fingers, and slowly the cruel grin began to return.

"Is that so," she said, her voice quizzical, but at the same time rich with dark sarcasm. "I'm sure Theodorus would be delighted to hear your reasoning. That is, if he weren't already six feet under and unable to hear anything at all."

She turned and swept her arms wide in a broad gesture that encompassed the crowd of faceless villagers before them.

"Perhaps you could explain it to all of them instead," she said gleefully, "They seem to be quite literally _dying_ to hear more of your excuses."

Callisto gritted her teeth.

"They were never excuses!" she snarled angrily. "I had reasons for everything I did."

The other her rounded on her suddenly, her face no longer lit with a sadistic grin, but instead filled with outright fury.

"Oh I know the reasons you tell yourself!" she snapped savagely. "And such good reasons they were too; that it was all on someone else's head, that their conscience would have to bear the weight of your crimes instead of yours! Almost convincing enough to make you believe them..."

Suddenly, the world lurched sickeningly, and the faceless were gone, and in their place there was now a single scene of pure, wanton carnage. The village lay in ruins with corpses strewn about the place as all around them fires burned fiercely against a late afternoon sky.

Callisto shifted uncomfortably as the other her took a dangerous step forward, the doppelgänger's eyes burning ferociously.

"...But then there's all of this isn't there," she continued, the dark smile returning once more. "Hard to deny it wasn't you who killed these people now isn't it? Hard to deny that all the innocent blood shed here is on your hands, and no one else's."

Suddenly she span away, turning her back on Callisto with a frustrated snarl.

"But you still do," She said, throwing up her hands in frustration. "And it sickens me to think that you can be so deluded."

"I didn't..."Callisto began staring about herself at the bodies that seemed to be growing more hideously bloody with every moment she looked upon them. There were just so many of them... so very very many. "...I mean it wasn't..." she looked at the other her desperately, her eyes wide and haunted. "I didn't have..."

"...any other choice?" the other her said mockingly, then she laughed and it was the same laugh that had haunted Callisto's thoughts so much recently. "The choice was always yours," the other her hissed. "Yours, and yours alone."

Callisto felt as if she were about to vomit, and the burning taste of bile began to rise in the back of her throat. She collapsed to all fours in the dirt, her heart pounding, and the blood roaring inside her head. Suddenly, the world shifted again, tilting alarmingly all about them, and for a brief instant Callisto felt as if she were falling end over end in a mad tumble down into the depths of some black and bottomless pit. Her hands and feet never left the ground however. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she did her best to fight off the sudden wave of nausea that was sweeping over, chewing her bottom lip so hard, she thought she may very well bite clean through it. Then, as quickly as it had come, the falling sensation was gone, and she opened her eyes once more. The shadows of tree branches played across a sea of long grass all around her and she lifted her head to take in these new surroundings. The scene of carnage was gone, and instead, she was now beneath the bows of a large old tree that overlooked a small farmhouse nestled at the outer edges of a small village.

It was a village she knew all too well.

Beyond it, the ground swept up into a series of low lying hills, and at the opposite horizon a row of figures on horse back had emerged. She could make out little more than their outline, silhouetted as they were against a night sky with a low hanging moon, but it did not take long for her to get a clearer view of them as the torches they carried blazed into life. Flickering orange light danced madly across them, and their weapons glinted menacingly in the darkness. A strong wind pulled thin streamers of her hair this way and that, carrying the voice of her mocking alter ego to her as well.

"Look familiar?" the voice of the other her taunted and Callisto rounded on the woman angrily, her fists clenched tightly at her sides.

"Why!?" she shouted after the other her. "Why do you keep dragging me back here? Why can't you just let me leave all this behind?"

The other her was leaning against the trunk of the tree, arms folded tightly beneath her breasts and a dark scowl etched into her brow.

"_I_ don't keep bringing us here," she said, straightening as she did so and walking past Callisto toward the farmhouse at the foot of the hill. "_You_ do."

Callisto started down the slope of the hill after her, her boots swishing quietly in the long grass.

"Why would I do that?" she snapped. "It makes no sense! This is where it all started to go wrong! Where all the pain began!" She stalked furiously past her doppelgänger, cutting the other woman's path short and pointing an accusing finger at her. "Well I don't want it anymore, do you hear me? Any of it! I don't want it in me, and if I could cut it out of me, I would."

The other her cocked her head slightly, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her mouth while her hand stroked gently at the dagger belted to her hip.

"Be careful what you wish for," she said softly, before stepping neatly around Callisto and starting down toward the farmhouse once more.

"And it makes perfect sense," she called back over her shoulder and gesturing expansively toward the village before them as she did so. "You keep coming back here because you're afraid to face the truth. This _place, _this grand delusion you keep coming back to..." she shrugged. "...all lies. This is your shelter in the storm, the place you run to when everything becomes too much. It may be the source of our pain, but its also the only place you feel safe."

"Safe!?" Callisto snapped viciously. "What could this place ever keep me safe from?"

"Me," the other her said as they reached the farmhouse door together. Reaching out, her doppelgänger pushed the door open with a theatrical sweep of her arm. Beyond them, the inside of the farmhouse that had once been Callisto's childhood home loomed like a dark cavern full of unknown menace.

Callisto took a tentative step toward it, a strange feeling of dread creeping in her stomach. Very little in this world could make her feel afraid, but the doorway and what lay beyond it were doing exactly that now.

"What's in there?" she asked.

The other her glanced at Callisto out of the corner of her eye, her gaze full of delighted anticipation.

"Our salvation," she said excitedly. "These lies you tell yourself have trapped us both long enough. It's time you accepted the truth. All it will take is a few small steps..." she gave another small shrug. "...and a not inconsiderable amount of pain."

Callisto glanced up over the roof of the farmhouse toward the opposite line of hills. Even now, Xena's army was descending on Cirra. It would not be long before everything was aflame, and the hot rush of agony she had felt as she watched her family die would soon fill her soul once more. Could this other her really be telling the truth? Was the answer to all her suffering, the key to the peace she had wanted for so long, really just beyond this door?

"I'm scared..." she whispered quietly, stepping back away from looming portal before her.

She could feel the other her stepping up behind her, so close now that they were almost touching. She leaned in close over Callisto's shoulder, whispering softly, almost affectionately, in her ear.

"I know," she said, then without warning, she shoved Callisto roughly forward and over the threshold into the darkness beyond.

Her doppelgänger cackled madly as Callisto let out a strangled, inarticulate cry of equal parts fear and rage at the sudden betrayal. Then, before she could even turn to escape, the other her had slammed the door shut behind her with all the booming finality of a cap stone being dropped across a tomb.

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: A much shorter chapter this time, but that's mainly because the first two chapters had a lot of setting up to do, and a lot of characters to re-introduce. This one is much more focused and for any of you wondering just what it is that's going on inside Callisto's head, now you have the answer. Hope you all enjoy and hopefully I'll be back soon with another update.<p> 


	5. Chapter Four: A Numerical Advantage

**Chapter Four: A Numerical Advantage**

The morning cooking fires were already being extinguished when Athelis stepped out of the woodsman's cottage. A thin layer smoke from each fire still hung in the air though, and the fresh smell of a hundred different varieties of broth alongside stale bread teased at his nostrils and made his stomach growl. He had not eaten yet this morning, and given the lateness of the hour, he did not expect he would be getting breakfast anytime soon. Still, there might be some leftovers in the mess tent, but only if he made good time now.

Blowing on his hands to shield them from the early morning chill, he began to stride off between the tents, his long loping stride eating the distance quickly. One or two younger Helots nodded to him as he passed and Athelis returned their nods with a polite incline of his head.

While most of the older Helots – and also those with families or children – tended to favour Ithius, there were a number of individuals within the camp who were slowly coming around to Athelis' way of thinking. It was a few of these people, hungry for revenge after the Spartan slaughter at the mustering fields, that Athelis had been training whenever time allowed, trying to forge some of them into fighters who would be more capable when it came to facing down the Spartans. It was those same few whom he had led at Tryxis several days earlier. At the moment it was only a small portion of the camp, perhaps less than a fifth in total, who saw things his way, but with every day that passed, and every day they sat inactive while Spartan influence continued to grow in the world outside, the more their numbers grew. What Athelis truly lacked though; what he needed more than anything else was a mouthpiece, a representative who commanded respect among the older Helots and who would be able to convince them to see eye to eye with him.

Rounding a corner between two smaller tents, the camp's mess tent loomed up before him. It had been Ithius' idea, and Athelis was forced to admit it was a good one. Fashioned from an old campaign tent one group had stolen from the Spartan's military stores before they had fled for the hills, the mess tent was a place where those without the means to prepare their own meals, or those whose efforts were better spent elsewhere, would be able to find some food. Many of the younger Helot men and women that had taken to following Athelis tended to eat there, and Athelis himself was a not infrequent visitor. As he approached it, he could hear the sound of voices coming from within. Clearly he was not quite so late as he had imagined.

Reaching out, he pushed the tent flap to one side and stepped through into the the tent's interior. A large fire pit with a huge cast iron cauldron had been erected at the centre of the tent, and surrounding it a number of long crudely fashioned tables and benches filled the floor space admirably. They had all been cut from trees felled in the camp's early days, and Athelis had got more than a few splinters from eating at them. Still, it was better than sitting cross legged on the ground.

Athelis could already feel the heat from the blazing cooking fire seeping into his bones, and he crossed quickly to the central cauldron. The Helot standing at it was heavy set and red faced, the heat from the fire causing beads of perspiration to form on his head as he stirred the bubbling broth within.

"Looks delicious as always," Athelis said sarcastically as he stepped up to the man. The big Helot said nothing. Instead he shot Athelis a dirty look, before slopping a ladle full of the lumpy mixture into a wooden bowl and handing him a lump of week-old bread to go with it.

Athelis looked at the food distastefully.

"I'll do my best to make it last," he said, nodding to the Helot. The big man just grunted and went back to stirring.

Not really caring how little the man thought of him, Athelis turned to take in the rest of the tent. The people were an eclectic bunch. He could spot one or two younger men who had been introduced to him only the day before. They had seemed bright, eager, and hungry for battle. All were qualities that Athelis could make use of.

It was not them that held his attention now though. Toward the back of the tent, seated on his own and away from the small knots of Helots seated at other tables, was Drogo.

Athelis did his best to fight back a grin. He had been waiting for an opportunity like this. Drogo was one of the old guard, a contemporary to Ithius, but one who did not entirely agree with their leaders current stance. Still, out of some misguided sense of loyalty, he continued to tow Ithius' line. Athelis had been trying to talk him round to his way of thinking for weeks, but the swarthy Helot was seldom apart from Ithius, and when he was, he was usually busy with some menial task about the camp that kept him occupied and away from Athelis. Not wanting to waste such a good opportunity, Athelis quickly crossed the room to stand before the shorter man. Drogo was sitting, staring down at the broth in front of him. His wooden spoon was tracing aimless patterns around the bowl and his eyes had a faraway caste to them, as if he were lost in thought.

"This seat taken?" Athelis asked, gesturing to the bench opposite Drogo.

"Feel free," Drogo said absently without looking up, and Athelis, accepted, sliding down onto the bench and quietly placing his own bowl softly on the table as he did so. As he seated himself, he could not help but finger the strange amulet in his pocket and when his fingers touched it, his thoughts immediately turned to Callisto. He did not have to do what he was about to attempt. Pelion had claimed that the amulet could undo what the Pneuma had done to Callisto; that it could bring her back to them in an instant. He had even said that with her help, they may be able to stop Cronus. It was a tempting alternative, but was it an alternative he could risk? Leaving the strange piece of jewelry sitting in his pocket, he reached out for his bread, ripping a chunk from it and dipping it in the lumpy brown broth before him.

No.

The day he trusted Pelion was the day he wound up in Tartarus. The amulet was simply too treacherous to make use of. He would find another way, and Drogo was as good a place to start as any.

"The other day was close don't you think?" he said, trying to sound as conversational as he could. Drogo glanced up at him, his eyes narrowing as he looked Athelis up and down.

"It's always close," he said carefully. "It has been ever since we came here."

"And aren't you getting a little tired of it?" Athelis asked, picking a lump of blue mold out of his bread and flicking it casually to one side.

Drogo gave a soft chuckle and dropped his spoon into the broth, the wood of the bowl and spoon clacking loudly against each other.

"Really?" he said. "Really!? You're actually going to try and enlist me in your little gang of malcontents?"

Athelis spread his arms, palms up in a gesture of mock innocence.

"Who said anything about enlisting?" he said. "I thought we were just talking."

"_You_ were talking," Drogo replied. "I was just trying to figure out what angle you were playing." He shrugged. "Now I know."

"A man's not allowed to express an opinion around here?" Athelis replied, playing wounded. "I thought you Helots valued your freedoms?"

"Oh, freedom we have already," Drogo shot back, casting a caustic glance about the tent as he did so. "Such as it is at least. At this point though, with things as bad as they are, I think I value our lives more." Athelis leaned forward across the table, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he did so.

"And you think that Ithius' secret scheme is going to keep you from losing people?" he said, seizing on the opening Drogo had just given him. "Remind me again just what that grand master plan is."

Drogo opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again when no words came.

"Exactly," Athelis said, leaning back again. "Ithius' plan was to run, but the Spartans have us boxed in. His plan hasn't been viable in weeks, so instead we've been sitting here for over a month waiting for him to come up with something else, and all we've managed to achieve in that time is to rescue a few stragglers here and there."

"Better than leaving them to be hunted down and killed," Drogo said defensively.

"Okay then," Athelis said, smoothly changing tack in response to Drogo's argument. "Alright. Answer me this then. How many _have_ you saved in that time?"

Drogo cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I'm serious," Athelis said earnestly. "How many?"

Drogo shrugged.

"Fifteen?" he said, although he hardly sounded certain of it. "Twenty maybe?"

"We'll say twenty," he said, nodding slightly as if in sympathy with the other man. "Credit where it's due'n all that. Twenty's not a bad number really. Not a bad number at all. But think about it for a moment; how many people are there in this camp?"

"Two hundred or so," Drogo replied flatly, as if he were already sensing where Athelis was leading the conversation.

Athelis leaned forward again in response.

"Two hundred," he said, echoing Drogo's words. "Two hundred men, women and children." His eyes narrowed accusingly at Drogo. "And how many of those two hundred lives does Ithius risk every time you ride out on yet another one of his little rescue missions to bring in one or two stragglers? How many did he risk in Tryxis?"

"And how many lives did you end there?" Drogo fired back at him, clearly trying to redirect the argument. "How many people did you kill? How many homes did you burn?"

"As many as were necessary to protect us!" Athelis hissed. "What I did, I did to make sure that there was no way any of us could be traced back here!"

"You keep saying 'us'," Drogo said, his top lip curling derision. "Don't remember you being born a Helot though."

"Maybe not," Athelis agreed. "But this past month I've fought beside you, sweated and bled for you, and if the Spartans find this place, I'll probably end up dying with you too," he gestured to the tent around them. "That's all it will take, Drogo. Just one Spartan finding this camp, and then everything will be done, finished, over with. Why is it so hard to make you people understand that?"

"Because your alternative is even more insane," Drogo replied. "Ithius is right when he says we're too few to fight a war. You can't challenge the mightiest military force in Greece with two hundred untrained men."

"Why not?" Athelis replied simply. "Leonidas did."

"His men were trained..." Drogo began, but Athelis cut him off before he could finish.

"...and outnumbered by an even greater margin than yours," he said, pressing his hands flat against the table, as he pushed his argument home. "Think about it, Drogo. The Persians were threatening everything Sparta stood for. Leonidas and the three hundred were fighting not just for their own lives, but for the very existence of their people."

He glanced back over his shoulder at the various clusters of Helots seated about the tent.

"Remind you of anyone?"

Drogo sat in silence for a moment, then, as if they had never even been arguing, he picked his spoon up again and began stirring aimlessly at the broth in front of him.

"You know I'm right," Athelis continued to press. "Demosthenes isn't just going to let you all waltz out of here to safety. Not without a fight at least, and high minded ideals won't hold him at bay."

He shrugged.

"A bit of pragmatism just might though."

Drogo let out a long low sigh of surrender.

"For the sake of argument..." he began slowly, "...let's just say I don't think you're _entirely_ crazy..." He looked up his, steady gaze meeting Athelis' "...what exactly would you be suggesting?"

Athelis smiled darkly. This was it! The chance he had been waiting for; his one and only shot at the Followers and ultimately at Pelion himself. Lacing his fingers together around the bowl of broth in front of him, he leaned in closer to Drogo.

"First thing's first," he said, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "I think it's time we tried to address Demosthenes' little numerical advantage, wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

><p>The light sea breeze tugged playfully at Adrasteia's long brown hair and stola as she stepped up to the side of the ship, her arms resting easily on the pock marked wooden railing that ran the length of the vessel's port and starboard flanks. In the distance she could see the low lying coast of the southern Spartan peninsula. It stretched for miles across the horizon to the west, before curving south and emptying out into the waters of the open ocean. To the east, it continued only a few more miles and then swept north and upward into a series of craggy and vertiginous cliffs that formed the back end of the wide bay across which they were sailing. The cliffs themselves were only now becoming visible, their tops just starting to peek above the late morning haze.<p>

Beneath her, the heavy splashing of oars filled the air with noise and spray, and the deep rhythmic chanting of the ships crew that accompanied it lent the whole atmosphere an almost hypnotic air. Her jaw cracked open in a wide yawn, and her eyelids drifted shut for a moment, as her head began to slump forward. With a start, she righted herself again; her head snapping upward as she fixed her gaze intently on the small town of Tryxis that awaited them.

She had not been sleeping well recently, and the previous night had proved worse than any that had come before it. At first she had simply chalked it up to her inexperience at sea travel. This _was_ the first time that she had ever traveled by ship after all, and the strange sensation of the vessel's gentle rocking as the waves passed beneath it had been disconcerting to her at first. It had not taken long for it to prove quite the opposite however, and the slow rolling feeling, combined with the creaking of the ship's timbers had quickly become a soothing background patter that had eased her nerves and made her eyelids heavy.

Then, as she had drifted on the edge of sleep, the visions had started to come to her.

They were the same visions that had been the source of her sleeplessness for the last week or so. Every time she lay down to rest they came to her unbidden, images, sounds and sensations of places she had never been before; of people she had never met, all piling up inside her head one after the other in a never ending torrent of sensation. In her mind's eye she had been forced to watch, sweating profusely even in the chill autumn air of the ship's cabin, as cities had burned beneath the dark, storm laden clouds that were racing across the sky above. From between the clouds had fallen great streaks of fire, each one belching waves of smoke heavenwards, and beneath her feet she could feel the earth being split asunder by terrible quakes that shook even the mountains to their core..

Among all this chaos, she had seen armies marching without banners or crests, and between them had walked a strange collection of people she had never seen before. At their fore came a young woman clad in black studded armour and with sharp, manic features that were framed by a wild mass of blonde hair kept only slightly in check by thin leather braids. She stalked across the open ground with all the grace and predatory sense of a great cat on the hunt, and in her hand she clutched an over-large sickle, its blade dripping red with blood. There was something unusual about the woman though. As she moved, the grinning visage would flicker and twist, occasionally appearing quite different to its earlier appearance. The wicked sneer and wild eyes would shift ever so slightly, and suddenly, instead of fearsome and dangerous, she would look wounded, pitiful, and tired, but the change never lasted, and after only a step or two, her visage would flicker back to the look of madness again.

Behind her there came three others. One had the manner of a soldier, a dark glower etched across his face, and a high crested helm carried in the crook of his arm. Another looked vaguely familiar to her, although she could not clearly make out his face. He carried a large and ornate walking staff, but from the way he strode in pace with the others, he did not appear to actually need it. Between these two men came a third figure, although she hesitated to call him a man, more akin as he was to a walking chunk of shadow. Long robes were drawn all about him, and his face was hidden in perfect shade beneath a heavy black hood. Just looking at him was enough to make Adrasteia's heart skip a beat in fear. He was not the worst of it all though. Behind them all came something else. She could not see it but she knew it was there nevertheless. It felt lake a great pressure weighing down upon her mind, and the more she tried to focus on what it was that followed in the wake of the strangers, the greater that pressure became, building between her temples until it threatened to split her skull like a melon struck by a hammer. Every time the vision ended the same way; with her head throbbing and a single disembodied voice whispering at her quietly from what seemed like a great distance away.

"_I hear you,"_ it would say.

She adjusted the single leather vambrace she wore on her left wrist, a feeling of discomfort crawling beneath her skin as the memories of the visions returned to her. Even with the soothing sea breeze and the daylight all about her, they still made her spine tingle. Of course, as soon as they had started, she had already taken them to her mistress; the Oracle of Delphi, to ask for help in interpreting them. The Lady Pythia had been her usual airy, mystical self about it all of course – a habit she had that irritated Adrasteia no end – and had only said that if the gods had seen fit to visit these visions upon her, then she must surely be capable of determining their meaning on her own. Nevertheless, a dark frown had cast its shadow across the Oracle's face as Adrasteia had relayed what she had seen. It was the very next day that she had been told she would be setting out for Sparta on the peacekeeping mission once the Athenian delegation arrived within the city limits.

In the end she had given up trying to sleep, and had instead sat cross legged on the bed, doing her best to purge her thoughts of all distraction so that she could better concentrate on the puzzle being presented to her. It was a practice the Lady Pythia had been trying to instill in her since she had first been brought to the Temple of Apollo when it was discovered that she had the oracular talent. Supposedly all Oracles had to be capable of cleansing their minds so that they might be able to surrender themselves to the divine visions that were both their blessing and their curse. Adrasteia always ended up with embarrassing songs that she had learned from her brother's soldier friends stuck in her head instead, much to the frustration of the Lady Pythia and the other, more senior members of the Temple. That the bed last night had had an uneven straw mattress that made her legs itch terribly and her back ache if she tried to lie on it for any longer than a half hour had not helped either, and so in the end she had given up entirely and headed up onto deck to greet the morning sun.

"Is something troubling you my lady?" came a voice from behind her, and she twisted at the waist to see a man standing behind her.

His name was Nikias, and he had been sent with her in order that her needs might be tended to during the journey. She was, after all, an Oracle in training, and it would not do for her to be seen traveling alone, or at least that was what the priests of Apollo seemed to think. She had tried to tell them that she would be traveling in the company of the Athenian delegate, but that had only seemed to upset them even more. Upon meeting the Athenian delegate, she had quickly begun to understand why.

Nikias himself was a lean figure, not particularly tall, but far from short. He had a narrow pinched face and his thin mouth had worn a permanent look of disdain since they had boarded the ship out of Delphi. Clearly less than impressed with their traveling conditions, he nevertheless had more grace and training than to be openly critical of them. In one hand he was carrying a pitcher of what she supposed to be water, and in the other, a dish piled high with food that looked like it may have come straight from the captain's table.

She gave him a sleepy half-smile.

"What gave it away?" she asked in answer to his earlier question.

If it was possible to shrug with just a twitch of your eyebrows, Nikias achieved it.

"You were not in your cabin when I came to wake you this morning," he said, "and then you were absent from the crew's morning..." he wrinkled his nose as if he were recalling some terrible smell. "...Repast," he managed finally.

"I couldn't sleep is all," Adrasteia said. Nikias gave her a concerned frown. "A bit of a head ache," she elaborated quickly. "Nothing to be worried about. I thought the fresh air up on deck would help clear my head."

"And your absence from breakfast?"

Adrasteia shrugged.

"I wasn't hungry," she said simply.

Nikias proffered her the dish he was holding.

"You should eat something."

Adrasteia eyed the dish of food, and shook her head.

"Still not feeling it," she said.

Nikias rolled his eyes in a long suffering fashion.

"Whether or not you are 'feeling it' is beside the point entirely," he said. "The road to Sparta is not even halfway done. You must keep your strength up for the journey, and that requires that you eat."

Adrasteia gave him an irritated look.

"Who's the servant here?" she asked. "You or me?"

Nikias inclined his head slightly in something approximating a respectful bow, but that was actually about as respectful as someone spitting in your drink.

"You are, of course, in charge my lady," he said delicately. "But the Lady Pythia herself instructed me to serve you as I would her. As I'm sure you are aware, the Lady Pythia's well being is my single overriding concern." He paused for a moment. "And now, so is yours."

"Oh come on Nikias," Adrasteia protested, rolling her eyes as she did so. "You should know me better than that. I'm a wool merchant's daughter; not some simpering high born maiden who needs a servant to wash my feet every few steps I take. I don't need to be coddled and a night without sleep and a morning without breakfast will hardly prove the death of me now, will it?"

"I would beg to differ," Nikias said. "The coming talks with this new Spartan King..."

"He's not a new king," Adrasteia corrected him. Nikias slanted a scolding eyebrow at her, as if to say 'I know full well what he is'.

"The talks with this king..." he repeated purposefully "...will be difficult enough as it is without you being half starved and sleep deprived."

"Which is something I've been meaning to talk to you about," Adrasteia said, turning fully around to face him so that she could lean back against the rail and rest her elbows on it. "Why even send me in the first place?"

Nikias adopted a confused expression, and Adrasteia could not decide if he was being genuine, or merely affecting it.

"I'm sorry my lady," he said. "I don't understand what you are driving at."

"Let me phrase it another way for you then," came a third voice that caused both Adrasteia and Nikias to turn to face its owner.

The newcomer was a man, and he was taller than either of them, but not enormously so. His was the look of one who had traveled a great deal in his life, or at the very least, one who had spent a great deal of time outdoors, and despite the fact he could not be far into his thirties, the toll of his lifestyles showed. He had a weather worn face and creases around his eyes, while across his jaw, he wore a carefully trimmed and oiled beard. His skin was leathery and sun darkened, and his hair was cut down to his shoulders, but tied back by heavy looking bronze bands. In most ways his looks were weather beaten but unremarkable; all save for his eyes. They were a dark, unreadable brown, but they still appeared sharp and cutting, never missing even the smallest detail in the world around him. He was clad in leather pants and an open chested jerkin, while across one shoulder he had slung a horse hair shirt stitched through with small bronze metal discs. At his hip swung an ivory handled short sword that he wore with all the confidence and swagger of a man born to it.

"How does the wise…" the man began as he approached them, "…the benevolent, the all seeing, all knowing, all singing, all dancing Lady Pythia - the Oracle of Delphi no less - end up choosing one of her own handmaidens, a slip of a woman not much more than twenty years of age, to be sent on an important diplomatic mission to face off against an aged and formidable Spartan King who, if reports are to be believed, just massacred half his city's population and even as we speak, may very well be preparing for war against the rest of Greece?"

"My lord Themistocles," Nikias said, inclining his head in that little half bow of his again. If it was possible it seemed even less respectful this time than when he had done it to Adrasteia. "I was not aware you had risen from bed yet this morning." The slight about the other man's slovenliness was obvious, but Themistocles did not seem to notice it.

"Archon," he replied sharply.

Nikias tilted his head a little further downward.

"I beg your pardon my lord?" he said, sounding genuinely confused this time.

"I'm an Athenian," Themistocles said. "So it's Archon. Not lord. If you are to insist on using my title Nikias, at least get it right."

"My apologies _Archon_," Nikias said, placing a heavy emphasis on the word. "I shall endeavour to remember in the future."

Themistocles nodded. "See that you do," he said and glanced toward Adrasteia. "And you still haven't answered the question."

Nikias' eyes narrowed in irritation at the Athenian and Adrasteia could see his jaw muscles working furiously.

"I cannot presume to judge the Lady Pythia's intentions Archon. Her reasons are her own after all."

"Oh come now," Themistocles said, his voice growing mocking as he spoke. "Surely a man of your..." he looked Nikias up and down distastefully, "...position must have some idea of your ladyship's intentions."

"If I were to hazard a guess, I would say the good Lady Adrasteia was chosen for the opportunity of experience this mission will provide," Nikias replied tightly. "She is one of those several potentials intended to succeed the Lady Pythia after all."

Themistocles gave a disbelieving grunt.

"Nonsense," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You don't train a child to fear snakes by dropping them into a pit of vipers and seeing if they come out alive. She could've met a dozen kings from the relative safety of the Temple of Apollo and all within a month had the need been there. As I understand it, men of all stations and from all over Greece regularly petition the Oracle after all."

He gave Adrasteia another glance, this one more appraising than the last. "I have met King Demosthenes, and I can assure you his reputation as a formidable man is not ill deserved. If the reports that we've been receiving are true, this mission could be the only chance we have of staving off a war with Sparta. Hardly the kind of task anyone – and especially one with the intelligence and experience of the Lady Pythia – entrusts to an inexperienced and untested young woman. There is something more to her being sent along with me and my men, and I think you know what it is..."

It was at this point, Adrasteia could stay silent no longer. Themistocles was a challenging man at the best of times, but now he was proving entirely obnoxious.

"I can assure you, honourable Archon," she began, using the formal mode of address the Lady Pythia had taught her, "that if our Lady does indeed have ulterior motives for sending us here, then we have not been informed of them." She glanced back toward her traveling companion. "Isn't that right Nikias?"

The smaller of the two men paused for a moment, his mouth snapping tightly shut, and a flicker of doubt suddenly sparked in the back of Adrasteia's mind. Until Nikias had paused, she had not even entertained Themistocles' idea, but now… Was he right? Did Nikias know more than he was letting on? Finally the smaller man gave the curtest of curt nods.

"You are quite correct my lady," he said.

"There," Adrasteia said, doing her best not to let her sudden uncertainty show. "Your question is answered. Perhaps not to your satisfaction, but answered nonetheless."

Themistocles eyed her for a moment, a slight smirk edging at one corner of his mouth. Suddenly, and completely unexpectedly, he let out a sharp bark of a laughter.

"Not quite the shrinking violet I thought you were, are you?" he said.

Adrasteia rolled her eyes again.

"Was there some other reason for your coming to us?" she replied.

Themistocles shrugged, the metal disc shirt he was carrying jangling as he did so.

"Only to say that you should get your things up on deck and be ready to disembark," he said. "Captain Drevus informs me that we will make landfall within the next half hour and not a minute later. A man of Drevus' financial acumen tends to place great stock in his timetables, as for that matter, do I. I want to be moving as soon as we dock. Time is of the essence, and I don't want it wasted dawdling around Tryxis because you want to try and buy some souvenirs."

"You don't have to worry about that," Adrasteia said. "I was just about to head below and pack up my things."

She started toward steps that would take her back below decks, eager to be away from Themistocles. The man made her uncomfortable although she could not place her finger on why. She had barely gone two steps when Nikias moved to cut her off.

"You should not trouble yourself my lady," he said. "I will make sure that all is seen to."

Themistocles gave him a curious sideways glance.

"You do that," he said.

Adrasteia was about to protest when Nikias fixed her with a look that all but told her that to do so would be pointless.

"Alright," she said with a slight nod. "I want us ready to travel the moment our feet hit land."

Nikias gave her a deeper bow this time, but as he did so he cast one final glance toward Themistocles.

"It will be as you say my lady," he said, straightening, then turning on his heel and hurrying off to do as he had been instructed.

Adrasteia rounded on the Athenian Archon, doing her best not to look annoyed with him and failing miserably. For his part, Themistocles did not appear in the least bit perturbed by her irritated glare.

"Is there a reason you were so rude to him?" she all but snapped at the man.

Themistocles' gave her a level look.

"Yes," he said simply.

"Care to tell me what it is?"

Themistocles shrugged again before crossing to the railing Adrasteia had been standing at earlier.

"Let's just say I don't like obsequiousness," he said, staring out toward Tryxis and past it to the hills beyond, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he did so.

Adrasteia watched him for a moment. While he made her uncomfortable, she had to admit there was something about him that was also quite enthralling. From the moment they had stepped aboard the ship, he had had an easy way with the crew, and at the evening meal the night before, even the captain had seemed enamored with him. It had taken her a little while to grow accustomed to the rolling of the ship, and she had been unsteady on her feet at first, but Themistocles had had no such problems, striding the decks as easily as if he were walking on unmoving ground.

She had heard tales of him of course. A preeminent figure in the fledgling Athenian democracy, he had risen to prominence off the back of the victory at Marathon little more than a year ago. It was Themistocles who, along with several other generals, had led the Athenian army to reinforce the Spartans there. To hear the bards tell it, he was pretty much solely responsible for the victory there too – although there were also tales of Xena, the Warrior Princess, being involved as well – and since meeting him, Adrasteia was inclined to agree with the stories. There was a spark of brilliance about the Themistocles; that much was certain, and it made it easy to see why the Athenians had elected him as an Archon. At first his naysayers had claimed that Marathon had simply been a lucky victory, one handed to him by the fates, but then, just recently, he had proven his worth again. While the tavern bards were already singing songs of Leonidas, and his brave three hundred man stand against Xerxes' Persian horde, Themistocles had at the same time been leading an Athenian fleet that had harried the Persians at sea and kept Xerxes from using his own fleet to outflank the Spartans on the ground. The naysayers had fallen silent after that.

A savior of Greece he was then, not only once, but twice, and a man accustomed to dealing with the somewhat dour Spartans to boot. The reasons for his selection for this particular task were obvious although not particularly compelling. From what she knew of the Spartans, and in particular their Kings, she doubted they had taken kindly to Themistocles seizing the limelight after Marathon, and that simple truth could as easily end up working against them as it could work in their favour.

"Tell me something," Themistocles said suddenly, his voice jolting her back to the here and now. He glanced back over his shoulder at her. "Nikias gave me his thoughts on why you were chosen for this, rubbish though they were. I'm wondering though, what _you_ think those reasons are."

Adrasteia sighed and moved to stand beside him.

"I don't really know," she said. "I've only been at the Temple a year or so. I'm still a relative neophyte compared to some of the other women there. I guess the Oracle thinks this will be the best use of my talents."

Themistocles looked her carefully in the eye.

"And what talents would those be?" he said.

Adrasteia cursed herself for nearly letting her visions slip. Besides the Oracle herself, she had spoken of them to no one and she planned to keep it that way too.

"I used to help my father negotiate trade deals in the Delphi merchant square," she said, hurriedly trying to think of something that might sound like a plausible reason for her having been chosen.

"A job for a son, usually," Themistocles said, still gazing at her steadily.

"And if he had been around, I'm sure my brother would have been the one doing the negotiating," Adrasteia replied smartly. "He wasn't though, and my mother never had a head for the numbers, so in the end it fell to me."

Themistocles' eyes remained locked on her for a moment longer, like the gaze of a cat watching a mouse while it prepared to spring, then suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, he smiled.

"Well said," he nodded, then turned to look back toward the shoreline. They were close now. So close even, that Adrasteia could make out small figures moving back and forth between the village buildings.

"But do you really think that dealing with traveling merchants and trade caravans is comparable to negotiating with the king of a Greek city state?" Themistocles continued.

"Why would it not be?" she answered. "People are people. They're the same from the top of society to the bottom. Merchants usually have heads the size of Mt Olympus too, and so do, as I'm reliably informed, kings. A little ego massage here, a little haggling there, and before you know it, they've got what they want, and you're walking away with enough gold to buy the goods they just bought from you three times over."

Themistocles chuckled.

"I take it you were good at it then?"

Adrasteia let a small smirk play across her lips.

"The best," she said.

"Confidence," the Athenian nodded approvingly. "It's a good tool to have at your disposal. Spartan Kings have it in abundance as well though, and they're a curious breed; all grim and full to overflowing with 'honour' and 'duty'." He gave a shake of his head. "Naive really, but it does make them tough to deal with. They don't work in half measures, and they won't meet you in the middle on anything."

He straightened from the railing, eyeing her once more.

"You see, you're not the only one who knows how to cut deals," he said. "So understand me when I say this. Sparta is not some merchants square where the dealings are civilised and the goods change hands for simple gold. The promise of money – of remuneration of any kind really – will carry little weight there. Men like Demosthenes – and myself for that matter – deal in power first and foremost, and when you're dealing with something that treacherous, the danger involved is very, very real. I will do my best to keep you safe if I can, but my primary concern is stopping a potential war before it starts. I can't afford to be babysitting you the entire time, so you must never let your guard down, even for a moment. Are we completely clear on this?"

Adrasteia cocked an eyebrow at him.

"I don't recall ever asking for, or needing a bodyguard," she said to him.

Themistocles gave her a dry smile again as he stepped back from the railing.

"Funny," he said. "How then would _you_ describe Nikias?"

She frowned at him.

"Nikias?" she said, slightly confused now. "He's my..." she paused as she searched for the correct word to use.

"Servant?" Themistocles said, flashing her a knowing grin.

"Companion," Adrasteia replied, a little too sharply.

"As you say," Themistocles said, his grin widening.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Adrasteia said, trying to keep her growing frustration with the other man from bubbling over.

"Only that if that man is a simple servant, then I'm the King of all Olympus," Themistocles answered, then, bending at the waist and sweeping his arm out to the side he dropped into a parody of courtly bow.

"Now my lady, if you'll excuse me, I really must finish my preparations for our landing," and with that he turned and left her standing alone by the rail once more.

* * *

><p>AUTHOR'S NOTE: Back with a double update. This was originally going to be a single chapter, but it was already starting to run long when I realised I needed to add still more stuff to it to setup some later events. As a result i rejigged it and now it's two chapters instead of one. We also have some new characters being introduced here that I hope you like, and just in case anyone is wondering, yes, the Lady Pythia being referred to here is the <em>same<em> Oracle of Delphi Callisto tried to assassinate as part of her plot against Xena in her first major appearance. I'm generally working from the assumption that both 'Callisto' and 'Return of Callisto' took place in the same geographic area, considering both episodes feature chases along a beach (the same beach I'm thinking) and that Callisto was probably imprisoned in Delphi between the two. At the end of 'Callisto' the men escorting she and her soldiers in chains are dressed the same as the Oracle's priests from earlier in the episode. It was probably just reusing the same extras in costume, but it would make sense from a logical standpoint as well. She did try to kill their Oracle. It stands to reason that they'd be the ones to keep her in prison.


	6. Chapter Five: The Potter's Yard

**Chapter Five: The Potter's Yard**

The muffled clip-clop of horses' hooves beat out a slow but staccato rhythm as the procession of crimson and blue caped Spartans passed between the shallow hills that rolled out to the southward horizon at their backs like great green waves. Some of the men were mounted, but the majority were afoot, their spears held at their sides, and their big bronze shields slung across their backs. Toward the rear of the group, Sentos' horse was plodding steadily along the trail, and the Spartan Captain watched the men in front of him with an even gaze.

There was a general murmur of discussion passing between the men, he noted, but unlike in the past where it would have been comradely and friendly, now it felt cagey and guarded. The men in blue capes seldom spoke to the men in red and vice versa and among the men in blue there was even further division. Here and there among Demosthenes' men, Sentos could spy the occasional sickle symbol stitched into a cape here, often so crudely that it was almost impossible to tell what it was actually supposed to depict. Conversation around those men was often even further stilted and formal, when it took place at all, and they would often draw wary glances from not only the men in red, but even some of their comrades in blue.

Sentos sighed softly to himself.

Was this really what they had been reduced to under Demosthenes' reign? Once they had all been brothers in arms, in service to differing Kings yes, but always holding the service of Sparta in common. It was almost ironic that now, following the deaths of Leonidas, Nestus, and the Ephors, and only one King remaining for them to owe their allegiance to, they were more divided than ever before.

"I've seen that look on your face before." The words snapped him immediately back to the present, and he glanced up to see one of the men in a blue cape, but mounted rather than afoot, falling back to join him. The man's name was Orestes. He was younger than Sentos, and hardly in Demosthenes' good graces which, if Sentos was being brutally honest, was probably why he had drawn the metaphorical short straw and been sent to babysit Sentos in the first place. Despite his current standing as the only survivor of Thermopylae lending him some small amount of prestige within the city, Demothenes still seemed determined to marginalise Sentos whenever the opportunity presented itself. This milk run to escort the diplomatic mission from the northern city states was a case in point. Demosthenes sending Orestes with him was just further evidence of the King's attempts to belittle him, if not in the eyes of the Spartan public, at the very least in the eyes of the other commanders.

In truth though, Sentos did not really care. Demosthenes and his cadre of loyal commanders such as Gracus made him uneasy, and the manner by which they had seized power positively sickened him. The less contact he had with them, the less involved he would be in their scheming and that suited him just fine.

Orestes gave him a halfhearted smile that was probably intended to be reassuring. Instead it only made Sentos feel even more maudlin.

"Care to tell me what happened in the council chambers?" the younger man asked.

Sentos shrugged.

"Oh, you know, the usual," he said with a heavy sigh. "King Demosthenes demanded to know why I still haven't managed to spit Ithius and his Helots like the cornered pigs he seems to think they are, then Gracus laid a trap for me, which I walked right into incidentally, and finally the King ended up questioning my loyalties." He gave a soft sigh. "He believes I'm not trying my hardest out here."

"And are you?" Orestes asked. Sentos eyed him askance.

"Be careful," he said. "I am as loyal to Sparta as any one man can be."

"And you aren't choosing your words carefully enough," Orestes remarked, guiding his horse closer to Sentos and lowering his voice so as not to be overheard. "Remember, these days, loyalty to Sparta, and loyalty to King Demosthenes are not the same thing."

Sentos groaned and rubbed at his right temple with two fingers.

"I have no head for all this," he said. "I was born a soldier. Raised a soldier. I even expected to die a soldier at Thermopylae. To Tartarus with all these veiled threats and insinuations."

Orestes leaned back in his saddle and let out a long low breath of equal parts sadness and commiseration.

"It would be nice if life was as simple as it used to be, wouldn't it?" he said. "But Demosthenes is our King now, and for the time being at least, there's little we can do to change that."

"Isn't there?" Sentos muttered. He had meant the comment only for himself, but Orestes snagged on it almost immediately. The younger man glanced about them both warily, his eyes coming to rest on the group of blue cloaked Spartans, and especially those wearing the sickle symbols. Finally, when he was sure that Sentos' remark had not been heard, he leaned in close to the Spartan Captain.

"You should be glad it was only me that heard you say that," he hissed. "Last survivor of Leonidas' brave three hundred or no, any one of those men would have happily had your head for treason if they knew that you were thinking of betraying Demosthenes." It was the first time Sentos had not heard him refer to Demosthenes as 'King'.

"Maybe that would be for the better," The Spartan Captain said, turning his gaze firmly on the younger man now, his face set firm and shoulders squared. "He killed the Ephors Orestes, and he had the Helots massacred on little more than a legal technicality! Can you look me in the eye and tell me that we should honestly call such a man our king?"

Orestes' expression became pensive as Sentos' voice rose slightly, and he cast another worried glance in the direction of the blue cloaked men, clearly worried about being overheard. Sentos could not really have cared less at this point, but for the man's peace of mind, he lowered his voice once more.

"I've served Sparta faithfully my entire life," he said. "I have done my best to honour our principles to the best of my ability, and within the limits of decency and morality." He leaned closer to Orestes, keeping his voice low, but unable to hide the growing outrage in it. "Demosthenes' ambition doesn't know the bounds of either. He and that new religion of his are a cancer in our city; one that will eat away at the heart of it until there is nothing left for us to call our own."

He turned away from Orestes, glaring angrily now at the group of red cloaked men marching in a column in front of him.

"The worst thing though," he continued, his voice becoming faraway as he relived the day of Demosthenes' coup in his mind, "the most terrible part of all this, is that me and my men could have done something about it. We could have cut that cancer out by the root a long time ago, but instead we've left it to fester and grow, and now I'm worried that Sparta may never be cured of it."

Orestes was silent for a moment, but when he spoke up again, his voice was calm and reasoned; a far cry from Sentos' tone of self recrimination.

"You would never have succeeded," he said simply. "Demosthenes had the city in his grasp long before that last council meeting. If you'd tried to stop him then, the same thing would have happened as if you tried to rise up against him now. You and your men would have been killed, and you yourself would have been branded a traitor, both to Sparta, and to Demosthenes and Leonidas. What good would any of that have done in the long run?"

"At least I'd have been standing for something," Sentos replied. "What do any of us stand for now?"

"We stand for Sparta," Orestes replied. "Its people, and its laws, but what good is any of that high mindedness if we don't live to protect it?" He fixed Sentos with a steady gaze and Sentos, not for the first time, was amazed by the man's firmness. It was rare to see such self possession in a man so young.

"The time for us to fight back is not now," the younger man continued. "We're the guardians of the soul of Sparta Captain; me, you, and those like us. It is not a pleasant task, I grant you, and we might have to compromise our own personal beliefs more than we already have before all of this is done, but if that means we can see our home free of Demosthenes and his like," he shrugged, "then so be it."

Sentos regarded Orestes silently. The younger man genuinely seemed to believe what he was saying; of that Sentos was certain. He only wished he could agree.

"You're wrong about one thing," he said. Orestes' only response was to tilt his head questioningly at him.

"We're not the guardians of the soul of Sparta," Sentos explained. "We_ are_ the soul of Sparta, or what is left of it, and if we keep giving in; if we keep capitulating and compromising, well then, will there be any of that soul left at all?"

Orestes did not answer.

The marching column of Spartans began to round the base of a hill they had been following for quite sometime now, and the gentle rolling landscape around them quickly started to give way to a downward sloping plain of low, bristling grass and the occasional waist high patch of scrub that continued for about a mile or so until it reached the wide shingle and sand beaches that separated the land from the glimmering sea beyond. Leaving Orestes behind him, Sentos spurred his mount to the head of the column, raising his closed fist to his shoulder in a gesture ordering the men at his back to halt as he surveyed the landscape before them.

Right on the coast lay a largish town. It was perhaps only a tenth the size of Sparta, and consisted mainly of low lying wooden huts, cottages, and shacks. From his elevated position, he could see the many piers at the far side of the town that jutted out into the sea and a wide variety of fishing boats, bobbed at their moorings as the morning tide came in.

"Tryxis I presume?"

It was Orestes again. He had ridden up level with Sentos as the other man had surveyed the town.

"I'm guessing so," Sentos said. He had never been this far north before, and he had to admit to being a little disappointed. Tryxis' reputation as a way station for travellers moving between the north of Greece and Sparta's southern territories was a strong one, and while Sentos had not expected a settlement on the level of say Athens or Corinth, he had at least thought the place might be slightly more formidable.

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. Even at this distance, he could make out a number of burned out buildings toward the town centre, and from the looks of them, the damage had been recent.

"Do you see that?" he asked, pointing toward the blackened structures. It took Orestes a moment of trying to figure out exactly what it was Sentos was referring to, but in the end he nodded.

"What do you suppose happened?" he said.

Sentos shook his head.

"I have no idea," he said, then gestured to the trail before them. "Maybe we could ask them though."

Just down the trail from them, a second column of Spartans, this time clad entirely in blue, had emerged from the town and was beginning to march up the hill toward them. As they drew closer, finer details began to emerge from the crowd. These men had clearly been on the road for longer than Sentos and his own men. Their cloaks were more travel stained, and frequently were caked in dirt across the hems that trailed closest to the ground. Their armour and shields lacked the polish of Sentos and his men as well, but despite all that they still moved with the same rigorously drilled precision as Sentos would have expected from them. He still frowned as they approached though. Their commander had ordered them into tighter ranks than Sentos would have thought prudent. Marching in such close file made them an easy pickings for any unit of concealed archers. One good volley of arrows could potentially wipe out half the unit before they could bring their shields to bear. That same commander was marching at the head of the unit now and it was a man Sentos knew well.

Doing his best to supress a groan, he urged his horse forward down the slope, Orestes following close behind him. Agrios was one of Gracus' more loyal lackeys; an obvious toady with no real aptitude for command beyond a certain skill at making it through battles with his skin intact. Still, he had somehow come to the conclusion in his own mind that he was some kind of great battlefield commander, and the way he strutted never failed to put Sentos' hackles up.

"Captain Sentos!" Agrios called up to him as he approached.

"Lieutenant," Sentos said, reining his horse in before the marching column. "It would seem you have some news for me."

Agrios nodded, an eager smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Indeed I do!" he said, the tone of his voice one of barely restrained excitement. "Ithius was here!"

Sentos sat very still at that, his eyes travelling past Agrios and back down to the burned out husks in the town below.

"Ithius and his Helots did this?" he said, barely able to contain his surprise. He had known Ithius for years although not particularly well. The man had been a close friend of King Leonidas since the two of them were children and even after Marathon and receiving his freedom, he had still often been about the palace.

His betrayal of Leonidas mere days before the battle at Thermopylae had doubtless been a contributing factor to the Spartan defeat there, and as he thought about those terrible days in that narrow pass with the scent of blood, sweat and death hanging thick upon the otherwise cool ocean breeze, Sentos felt his pace begin to quicken. No, he had never been close to Ithius, and after what the other man had done, Sentos was even prepared to hate him, but even he had to admit that attacking a town full of innocents and burning a sizeable portion of it to the ground seemed out of character for the Helot leader.

"They did," Agrios nodded in answer to his earlier question. "The locals say they were trying to apprehend him for us. They thought King Demosthenes might appreciate the gesture as a token of good will on their part."

"I'm sure he would have," Sentos said absently, still regarding the burned out town-houses below. "What exactly went wrong then?" he said eventually.

"They say he fought back," Agrios said. "That he and his people killed all of the men sent to arrest him, and set fire to the town to cover their escape, before fleeing for the hills. A coward's tactics if ever I heard them."

Sentos tapped his chin thoughtfully. Again, that did not sound like Ithius. The man could fight like a lion when cornered it was true, and he had no doubt that if these townsfolk had gone after him, they may very well have found themselves biting off more than they could chew, but setting fire to the town itself? He was almost certain that Ithius would never have willingly indulged in such behaviour.

"And where is he now?" he asked.

"Already gone," Agrios replied. "He apparently headed into the hills with those of his people who survived the attempt to apprehend him. My men and I have been awaiting your arrival so that we may pass our duties to you and give chase."

Sentos regarded the other man carefully. Demosthenes had ordered him to set Agrios to hunt Ithius, but that was a mistake he realised now. Agrios was a favourite among Demosthenes' people it was true, but compared to Ithius – a man who had led men into war time and again, and who had always brought those same men home with him from victory after victory – he was little more than a rooster; a strutting, crowing, cock of a man, good at keeping himself alive but not those who followed him. That he could march men in formation on the mustering fields was not in question. Whether or not he was any kind of match for a field commander of Ithius' talent and experience most certainly was.

Sentos – himself with over a decade's experience campaigning – had been hunting Ithius at Demosthenes' order for the last month, and even though he knew the King thought he was not giving the effort his all, the simple fact of the matter was that Ithius was a cannier prey than anyone truly realised. More than once he and his people had managed to slip through search nets Sentos had laid down for him, though in truth, each and every time he had managed to evade them, Sentos had felt a touch of relief. To his mind, the Helots had been punished well beyond the severity of their crimes, if indeed they were crimes at all, and what would be done to them should Demosthenes ever get his hands on the last remnants of them did truly not bear thinking about.

Still, this was the first time in weeks he had been this close to them. Could he really afford to let them go now when there was a very good chance that if he gave chase he may actually be able to achieve the task Demosthenes had set him... but then again, it _was_ no longer his task any more, and he could hardly be blamed for following the express orders of his King now, could he?

Before he could reach a final decision however, the distant pealing strikes of a bell began to fill the air; first just one, then another, and then another.

"What's happening?" Orestes said, shifting in his saddle as a fourth bell strike sounded. "Is it an attack?"

Agrios shook his head again.

"Not an attack," he said and pointed to the horizon. "A greeting." Way out to sea, a small white square of fabric above a tiny brown shape was beginning to become visible. If Sentos guessed right, it appeared to be a ship of some kind.

Orestes' followed his gesture and the man noted the distant ship with a nod of his head.

"Looks like we arrived just in time," he said.

Sentos straightened in his saddle.

"Looks like," he nodded. "We'd better get moving if we're to make it to the town before they do."

"Captain Sentos, sir!" Agrios called up to him. "What would you have of me and my men?"

Sentos turned back to the man, giving him one last thoughtful glance. If not Agrios, Demosthenes would simply set someone else to the task, and that person might very well be more capable. In the long run, Ithius and his Helots would probably be better off with a man of Agrios' limited talent hunting them than with anyone else.

"Lieutenant Agrios," he commanded sharply, his mind finally made up.

Next to him Agrios snapped immediately to attention.

"Sir!" he barked in response.

"King Demosthenes has ordered that you be set to the task of hunting down the traitor Ithius and his Helot supporters," Sentos continued. Should you locate them however, you are not to engage directly, but simply to call for reinforcement and then hold your ground until such reinforcements can be made available to you. Are these orders clear to you as I have explained them?"

"Perfectly clear sir!" Agrios said. Without a moments pause he turned and barked a series of orders to his men. The Spartan troops snapped quickly to attention, their spears straightening as Agrios began to lead them off up the trail.

"May the gods watch over you Agrios!" Orestes called after him. The other Lieutenant let out a snort of derision, and for the first time Sentos caught sight of the crudely stitched sickle on the back of his cape.

Turning back to his own men with a barely suppressed shudder, he lifted his hand high, then let it fall in a chopping motion toward the town of Tryxis below.

"SPARTANS!" he barked at the top of his lungs. "FORWARD!"

Behind him, the sound of at least a hundred pairs of booted feet beginning to move again filled the air with a heavy, grinding thrum. He watched as they marched past him in the opposite direction to Agrios and his men. Each soldiers' face had a grim set to it as they tried to mentally ready themselves for whatever it was that might come next. They were not expecting any trouble, truth be told. Despite what Demosthenes maintained about the roads being fraught with 'bandits', Ithius and his Helots were hardly in a position to threaten anyone, let alone mount any kind of serious resistance, and with Agrios and his men dogging them across the countryside, they were even less likely to cause trouble.

Still, if there was one lesson Sentos had learned recently, it was that no matter how strong, secure or prepared you thought you were, there was always the chance that trouble was lurking, unseen, unheard and in wait, and always right around the corner.

* * *

><p>Adrasteia did not have to wait much longer for the ship to reach the dock. Nikias had re-emerged from below decks soon after Themistocles had left her by the railing, and he had come carrying a couple of small packs that contained all the gear they would need for their journey, including tinder boxes wrapped in waxed sheets of papyrus and a few changes of clothes.<p>

At Captain Drevus' shouted commands, the oars down one side of the ship had been lifted clear of the water, while the oarsmen down the other side had redoubled their efforts, their own oars working the water into a churning mass of bubbles and foam as they had turned the ship where it drifted so that its aft was facing the dock. Then the other set of oars had been lowered back into the water once more, and with a keen backward stroke, the ship had begun to reverse into the dock. Adrasteia had watched, fascinated, as the locals of Tryxis had come out onto the dock to greet the ship, catching guidelines thrown down to them by Captain Drevus' crew. Once all the lines had been caught, they then begun to pull, digging in their heels against the weight of the ship as they heaved it sideways toward the wooden pier upon which they were standing.

Despite all their hard work though, the the tide was working against them, and for a brief, horrifying moment, Adrasteia thought they were going to overcompensate in their efforts and set the ship on a collision course with the dock or even worse, set it tilting into a full on capsize. Her fears were to prove groundless in the end though, with the locals and ship's crew both proving far too experienced, and instead of the capsizing the ship simply settled within almost touching distance of the pier while the locals began to tie off the moorings.

Adrasteia breathed a sigh of relief and began to heft her travelling gear. She was about to make for the gangplank that had already been run down to the pier when she felt Nikias' hand on her shoulder. She turned to frown at him, but he simply shook his head.

"Be patient my lady," he said. "Captain Drevus' ship has been a haven for us so far on this journey, but once we are clear of it, we will be alone in potentially hostile territory, with only the Archon and his men for our protection."

As if on cue, a group of five Athenian soldiers, clad in supple leather breastplates, dull iron helms, and carrying short swords and spears jogged down the ramp and began to spread out quickly across the dock with military drilled precision.

"You see," Nikias said, gesturing down toward them. "They will ensure it is safe for us, and only then shall we disembark."

Adrasteia frowned.

"I don't like this," she said, gripping the rail tightly as she watched them moving further across the dock and even down to the shore itself. "I don't like the idea of people putting their lives on the line for us."

"For _you_ my lady," Nikias said, "and it is their duty."

Adrasteia tried her best not to pout.

"I still don't like it."

For the first time since she had met him, Nikias gave her a smile, and she was surprised by how warm and affectionate it was.

"I'm sure very few people in your situation would," he said. "But you must understand my lady, that you are no longer the woman you once were. The gift of foreknowledge has been granted to you by the great god Apollo himself, and an incredible gift it is too."

"Sometimes it feels more like a burden," Adrasteia said softly, trying not to think of the visions for what would probably be the hundredth time that day. "I don't always like what it shows me."

"No great gift is given entirely free of consequence," Nikias said, his voice now oddly comforting to her. "What you have been granted however, is what so many would gladly give their lives for in exchange; a link, not just to Apollo, but to all the gods, and to Olympus itself. The divine light of the heavens shines upon you, and through you it may touch the lives of many who would otherwise never know its beauty or its grandeur." He paused for a moment, and then glanced toward the Athenian troops on the dock.

"Such a gift is too precious to be lost," he said softly. "It must be protected. _You_ must be protected."

"Plus, running about playing soldiers down their makes the boys feel all strong and manly," Themistocles interrupted them, his tone of mocking souring the mood as both Nikias and Adrasteia span to face him. Neither of them had heard him approach, although it certainly was not thanks to any attempt at stealth on his part. He was wearing the horse hair shirt now, and each of the metal discs sewn into it would clink quietly against another with every step he took. Adrasteia and Nikias had simply been too wrapped up in their discussion to hear his approach.

He came to a stop right in front of them, his own travelling pack slung easily across his shoulder, while his hand rested calmly on the ivory handled sword at his hip.

Nikias cast him a dirty look as if to say _'must you cheapen the moment so?'_

"Are you two ready?" Themistocles asked, glancing questioningly between them as the docking ramp began to rattle loudly. One of the soldiers was probably jogging back up it.

Nikias looked to Adrasteia, who gave a small, tight nod. A wave of queasiness had begun to settle over her, and for some reason memories of her vision and the four strange figures in it came to her unbidden. Now she was about to leave the safety of the ship, the danger they may very well be walking into had suddenly begun to feel all that much more real, and the visions suddenly all that much closer to reality.

Suddenly one of Themistocles' men popped back up at the side of the ship and quickly trotted across the deck to the Archon's side.

"Report," Themistocles said, his voice harder now and filled with military authority.

"The dock is clear," the soldier said. "The locals were expecting us it would seem."

"Hardly a surprise," Themistocles said. "They must have seen us coming several miles ago."

The soldier nodded. "Yes sir, but there's something else."

Themistocles' brow furrowed and he cast a brief backward glance toward Adrasteia and Nikias.

"What is it?" he said warily.

"There are Spartans here."

Adrasteia felt her heart skip a beat and the four of them quickly crossed to the railing. The soldier gestured toward the shoreline, and sure enough, emerging from among the rows of buildings that made up Tryxis proper was a column of men marching in rigid lock-step. Their armour was similar to that worn by the Athenians, although it was dark black instead of tanned brown, and the helms they wore were cast of bronze rather than iron. Each soldiers' helm also sported a crest in either blue or red that matched the long capes they wore buckled to their shoulders, and every one of them had a large, heavy looking bronze shield strapped across their back while the spears they carried glinted wickedly in the morning sunlight.

At the head of the column two men rode on horseback. One of them dressed in red, and coming on slightly ahead of the other, who was in turn dressed in blue. As they caught sight of the ship, the man in red raised a clenched fist, and the other two men reined in their horses beside him, the animals snorting and pawing at the banks of sand that separated the dock from the town itself as they watched the ship arrive. The column of soldiers behind them drew to a stop as well, resting the butts of their spears in the sand as they waited silently for their next orders.

Adrasteia found something unnerving about the way they just stood there, waiting and watching the ship in perfect formation, and not making even the slightest sound. There was no muttering and none of the uncouth jokes or ribald humour she had learned to expect from the soldiers she had met during her youth. Instead these men looked as solid as marble and twice as immovable.

She did not think she had ever been more intimidated by anything in her entire life.

"What are they doing here?" she hissed. "I didn't think Tryxis was Spartan territory."

"It isn't," Nikias answered.

"Although from the looks of thins, how long it remains that way is less certain," Themistocles added, his brow furrowing as he watched the men on the beach warily.

"Do you think they've come to kill us?" Adrasteia asked, giving the lines of spears an uncomfortable glance.

Nikias shook his head.

"Almost certainly not," he said. "One doesn't dispatch a whole Spartan Phalanx Unit simply to murder a small diplomatic envoy."

"And what would you know about Phalanx Units or Spartan tactics?" Themistocles asked, shooting the man a studying look.

Nikias did not answer, and Themistocles turned away, a satisfied smirk playing across his lips.

"Still," he said, glancing to Adrasteia, "Your man is probably right. Demosthenes may be a ruthless bastard, but even he wouldn't order a peace envoy murdered, especially not in ostensibly 'neutral' territory. It would just be so..." he paused, then grinned wider. "...unseemly," he finished.

"Well if they've not come to kill us, what have they come here for?" Adrasteia hissed in frustration.

Themistocles tapped his chin thoughtfully.

"They're probably an escort," he said finally. "It shouldn't really come as a surprise I suppose. I _did_ send word we were coming after all."

"You did!?" Adrasteia said. This was the first she had heard about it.

Themistocles fixed with a stare that suggested she was beginning to test his patience.

"You don't go marching onto another king's territory with so much as _one_ soldier without telling them you're coming first," he said pointedly. "If we had just turned up unannounced, even as few as we are, we'd be the ones starting the war instead of the one's trying to prevent it."

He drummed his fingers steadily on the railing.

"I hadn't expected them to be here already though," he continued thoughtfully. "We only sent word four days ago, and Sparta is at least three days march south, and that's if you're making good time." His eyes narrowed. "There's something else going on here. I'd stake my inheritance on it."

"You have an inheritance?" Adrasteia said disbelievingly. Themistocles did not seem like he came from the type of family that had ever stood to inherit anything.

"No," he said with a playful grin, "and that's why I'm staking it."

"Figures," Adrasteia shot back at him.

Themistocles gave her and amused snort, then went back to studying the Spartans carefully for a moment longer. Finally he straightened from the railing and took a deep breath.

"Well, I suppose their isn't much sense in waiting around here any longer," he said, then, without warning, he span on his heel to face back toward the ship's aft.

"Captain Drevus!" he shouted.

It didn't take long for the rotund, ruddy faced ship's captain to come waddling up to them, the few strands of hair he still possessed lacquered to his skull by a seemingly permanent sheen of perspiration.

"Honourable Archon," the man said, sweeping a deep bow to Themistocles. "I trust we have discharged our duties to you admirably."

"You have," Themistocles nodded, "and we are most grateful indeed, but I'm afraid that there is something else we must now ask of you."

"If it is within my power to assist you, then it shall be done," the captain said.

"The Lady Pythia paid you for our transport here, correct?"

"She did indeed," said Drevus. "And a princely sum it was too I might add, but sadly only enough to cover the costs of our journey here."

Themistocles eyed him carefully, and Adrasteia fought to suppress a smile as she realised what was happening. She had seen merchants acting this way before, sizing each other up in an attempt to determine who could afford what and for how much. It was a conversation of body language that took place between the words that were spoken, and the sheer number of times she had been forced to endure it when haggling on behalf of her father had made her an expert at it.

"We require you to remain docked here for the foreseeable future," Themistocles was saying. "When the time comes for us to return to Delphi, we may end up having to do so in a hurry."

Drevus rubbed at his chin in mock concern, and Adrasteia could already see the wheels turning inside the squat man's head.

"And when you say foreseeable future…" he began, but before he could finish, Themistocles cut him off.

"One week at the least," he said. "Perhaps even longer."

Drevus sucked in air between his clenched teeth. "I'm afraid that that is quite impossible," he said. "I have a cargo hold of goods that the tradesmen in Thrace simply must…"

Themistocles thrust a large heavy looking pouch toward the man. It jangled loudly as Drevus reached out to take it from him, doing his best not to let his mouth hang open in slack jawed amazement at the sheer weight of the thing.

"Six hundred dinars," Themistocles said matter-of-factly. "Plus two hundred more for your coffers upon our return. That should be more than enough to cover a whole month's worth of shipping those flea bitten animal skins you have in your hold between Thrace and Delphi."

Drevus could not take his eyes off the pouch Themistocles had handed him.

"How long did you want us to wait again," he said absently, not seeming to have heard Themistocles. The Athenian Archon turned to Adrasteia and winked.

"Two weeks minimum," he said. "Sail before that time, and I'll have the merchant's guild in Delphi revoke your port permissions."

"Two weeks," Drevus nodded eagerly, not seeming to really comprehend the words he was saying. "Of course, of course."

Themistocles slapped the captain heartily on the shoulder and flashed him a broad smile.

"Good man," he nodded, then turned back to Adrasteia and Nikias. "Now let's be on our way before he changes his mind," he hissed, slinging his travel pack across his shoulder and making for the gangplank as he did so.

The four of them descended to the pier quickly, Themistocles and Nikias going first, with Adrasteia stepping carefully behind them down the shaky gangplank to avoid being pitched into the sea while the soldier that had brought the news of the Spartans arrival brought up the rear. Themistocles nodded to the locals that had helped dock the ship as he passed them, flicking each of them a shining silver coin as he did so. One or two of the men smiled happily as they took the money, but most simply hung back, a look of caution in their eyes. Adrasteia had the distinct feeling that, despite Themistocles' generosity, they were still far from welcome here.

"You know," she began as she quickened her stride to keep pace with Themistocles, "You didn't have to pay him so much. He would've almost certainly settled for half the amount you gave him."

Themistocles glanced at her then turned back to stare up the pier toward the Spartans and nodded.

"You're probably right," he said. "But we didn't have time to negotiate, and the good captain is hardly a man of backbone. If we'd paid him only a little over the odds, he'd be less likely to take the risk of staying after we left. The two hundred extra was just added incentive; a bit of a deal sweetener."

His stride lengthened and he strode off ahead of her, gesturing to his soldiers to fall in around them as they stepped off the pier and onto the shore itself.

Ahead of them, the Spartan in red clicked his tongue, and gently spurred his horse toward them at steady trot. The animal turned as it drew closer to them, presenting its flank and flicking its tail as it's rider tugged at the reins to draw it to a stop.

"You are Themistocles of Athens?" the Spartan said. He was a grizzled looking man, with a hard eyed stare. Nevertheless there was something else in the way he looked at them that Adrasteia could not place. It was a strangely haunted look that spoke of dark things he had witnessed. For a moment she felt a strange surge of pity for the man, although she could not really determine why.

Themistocles simply nodded, his hand brushing against the pommel of the sword at his hip.

"I am," he said.

"And them?" the man nodded toward Nikias and Adrasteia

Themistocles half turned and gestured to take in both of them.

"This is the Lady Adrasteia, handmaiden to the Lady Pythia, Oracle of Delphi," he said, before shifting slightly to take in Nikias. "And this gentleman is her... _companion,_" he said, giving Adrasteia a respectful nod. "Nikias of... some-where-or-other."

Nikias bristled at that but said nothing, and the Spartan's eyes narrowed. He clearly had not appreciated Themistocles' attempts at levity.

"I am Captain Sentos of the army of Sparta," he said. "Our King, Demosthenes of the line of Akellus, has bid us escort you back to Sparta."

"Looks like I won't be losing that inheritance then," Themistocles grinned, to which the Spartan only responded with a confused frown.

"Your King's offer is appreciated and accepted," Adrasteia spoke up quickly, and Themistocles smiled at her, as if to say _'You're learning'._

"What she said," he smiled turning back to face Sentos. The Spartan captain grunted, and turned his horse.

"If you would please follow me," he said. "The journey is not a short one, and King Demosthenes wishes for us to bring you to him with as much haste as we can manage."

"Well he may be disappointed then," Themistocles said as they started to follow Sentos up the beach, and Adrasteia frowned when she noticed he was suddenly walking with an uneven step, one foot dragging slightly behind the other as if he were lame. She could have sworn he had never walked like that before.

"I have this terrible limp as you may have noticed," he continued and shrugged, "an old war injury. There was this Amazon warrior you see, and she was carrying a spear longer than yours..."

Sentos gave another grunt, this time more irritated, and swung down from his horse. He stalked angrily round the animal to stand in front of Themistocles.

"Then you shall ride," he said thrusting the reins into Themistocles' hands. Themistocles shot him a satisfied smile as he swung easily up into the saddle.

"And my companions?" he said. "Surely you do not expect a handmaiden to the Oracle of Delphi to walk all the way to Sparta?"

Sentos shot him an irritated glance.

"Horses will be provided for them," he said, making a gesture toward the other lead Spartan, who simply nodded then turned and gave a barely audible instruction to the men behind him. Adrasteia watched as several Spartans began to lead a group of unmounted horses toward the group, clearly spares they had brought along with them.

"Now there's a good fellow," Themistocles said, smiling. With a click of his tongue and a dig of his heels, he turned his mount and began to urge it forward at a steady trot. "Well shall we be about it then?" he called back over his shoulder. "Daylight is wasting after all."

Adrasteia could see the Spartan's jaw muscles tensing as he watched Themistocles ride away from them.

"Try not to let it bother you so much," she said, stepping up beside him. "He has that effect on pretty much everyone."

"He'll be lucky if he makes it all the way to Sparta if he keeps up like that," Sentos muttered. "If one of the others doesn't put a spear between his ribs then I just might." He looked at her out of the corner of his eye and let out a low sigh of surrender.

"My apologies," he said, turning to face her more fully. "You are guests of Sparta after all, and I should not have spoken of your friend in such a manner. Please forgive me."

"He's hardly my friend," she said, starting up the beach with him, Nikias and the five Athenian soldiers in tow. "I only met him for the first time a couple of days ago."

"And did he make as good a first impression on you as he has on me?" Sentos said, giving her a wry smile.

"I think I may have wanted to strangle him within the first five minutes," Adrasteia replied.

"Five minutes," Sentos nodded thoughtfully. "Surely a world record."

Adrasteia laughed at that as they began to follow Themistocles up the beach. It did not take her long to notice the man's slightly uneven stride. It was far less pronounced that Themistocles' more theatrical display, but there was no doubting it. The man was lame.

"Are you injured?" she asked, nodding toward the leg the man did not favour. He frowned at her for a moment then suddenly realised what it was she was talking about.

"A recent battlefield injury," he nodded, then cast a glance toward Themistocles, "and one that is quite genuine I assure you."

"But what battle has there..." Adrasteia began, then stopped as the truth of his words suddenly hit her. "You were at Thermpoylae!"

Sentos nodded gravely.

"I was."

"But I thought the three hundred were wiped out to the man," Adrastei said quietly.

"I am the only survivor," Sentos replied, "and not by choice I might add. I was ordered to return to Sparta to carry news of the defeat there."

Adrasteia was not sure what to say. On the one hand, it was almost good to hear that at least someone had survived that terrible battle. On the other though, Sentos did not seem entirely pleased by that fact. She could only imagine the guilt he must feel at being the only man ordered to survive as the rest of his fellows were ordered to their deaths.

For long moments the two of them simply walked in silence until finally they reached the spare horses that the Spartans had provided for them.

"I must admit, I am surprised that someone of your station was sent," Sentos continued, kneeling, he presented his hands with fingers laced together like a makeshift stirrup to help her up into the saddle. Adrasteia cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Really?" she said, stepping around him to swing herself easily up into the saddle. Sentos eyed his interlaced fingers, then shrugged and straightened, crossing to another horse and climbing up onto its back. "And why is that?"

"I had heard that the Oracles rarely travel outside of Delphi," Sentos said.

"I'm not an Oracle," Adrasteia replied.

"Not yet at least," Themistocles called back down the column, from where he had apparently been listening in on their conversation.

Adrasteia shot him a venomous glance then turned back to Sentos.

"Just ignore him and maybe he'll vanish in a puff of smoke," she said.

Sentos nodded grimly.

"I shall endeavour to do just that," he said.

As one, the column of Spartans did an about face and began to march back off the beach and into the town of Tryxis proper. A number of the locals had gathered in side streets to watch them pass, and Adrasteia could not help but notice the fearful looks in their eyes as the Spartans strode past in their perfectly even ranks.

"Anyway," she said turning back to Sentos, "you aren't the only ones who should be surprised. We weren't expecting any kind of escort."

"We would hardly be the best of hosts if we did not ensure your safety on your journey to our city now, would we?" Sentos replied, a touch too evenly, as if he did not quite believe the words he was saying.

"But you must have known delegates from other city states wouldn't be travelling unescorted,"

Sentos gave a chuckle, and the hint of derision behind it was obvious.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"Forgive me," Sentos said, "but five Athenians is hardly what I would term an escort."

"And what dangers are there in these lands that five well trained soldiers would prove unable to defend against?" Adrasteia asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. Sentos' lack of respect for the men escorting her was beginning to annoy her greatly. Men willing to lay down their lives so readily deserved better than to be spoken of with disregard.

"First, I would hardly call them soldiers," Sentos said, glancing at the Athenians who were walking a little distance back from the main column. "Farm hands and labourers handed swords and told to march to war do not equal men trained for combat. Second, I take it you saw the burned out buildings around the town as you arrived?"

Adrasteia nodded.

"We did," she said. "I was wondering what had happened to them now that you mention it."

Sentos regarded her carefully for what seemed like minutes. So intense was his scrutiny that Adrasteia had to fight the urge to squirm uncomfortably in her saddle. He was about to open his mouth the speak when the second mounted Spartan rode up to them.

"Bandits happened to them," the man said, earning him a strange look from Sentos.

"These lands are teeming with them," the man continued, ignoring the red cloaked Spartan captain. "King Demosthenes was concerned for your safety, which was why we were sent to meet with you."

"Lady Adrasteia," Sentos said, gesturing to the man in the blue cloak, "allow me to introduce Lieutenant Orestes, my second in command."

"It is indeed an honour my lady," Orestes said, giving as deep a bow as he could manage on horseback.

"The honour is mine Lieutenant," Adrasteia replied, offering him similar supplication. "But you say it was bandits that attacked this town?"

Orestes nodded.

"Yes, in the early hours several days ago. They killed a large number of townsfolk and put several buildings to the torch in order to cover their escape. It's a pity we were not here sooner. It would have been good exercise for our men, and would have made those scum think twice about attacking a defenceless town like Tryxis again."

The column had just entered into what looked like the main town square. Around the square were several burned out buildings, all next to each other. Presumably a single fire at one of them had spread to the rest. A large inn was also facing them from the square's opposite side, and at a right angle to that was a large grey stone building, presumably a town hall. Two rather weary looking men in battered armour were standing guard on the building's doors.

"Defenceless?" Adrasteia pressed as she spied the two armed men. "Does this village not have a guard of its own then?"

Orestes' eyes narrowed as she spoke.

"It does," he said.

"Then should they have not defended it?" Adrasteia pressed. There was something not right about all this, and she was determined to find her way to the bottom of it. Orestes just glared at her.

"Indeed they should," came another voice that she recognised all too well. It was Themistocles. "But even the best town guard can still find hardened bandits a tricky proposition," he continued as he rode up to them.

"Lady Adrasteia," he said, turning to face her with a polite nod. "A word if you please?"

Giving a mental curse, she turned and gave Sentos and Orestes a despairing smile. Why did he have to interrupt her now? She had just been starting to get somewhere!

"If you gentleman would excuse me..." she said as politely as she could manage. Easing her horse alongside his, the two of them fell back, allowing Sentos and Orestes to continue on ahead. The two of them proceeded to sit in silence, watching as the column moved by them with the steady pound-pound-pound of hundreds of pairs of feet.

It was only once the last of the Spartans had passed out of earshot, that Themistocles began to speak again.

"I must admit," he began, not so much as glancing at her as he spoke, "my memory is not all it could be, so please try not to take offence if I'm mistaken in this, but I _distinctly_ recall impressing upon you earlier just how dangerous this situation is."

"You recall correctly," Adrasteia replied evenly.

"Then do you want to explain to me exactly exactly what it is you thought you were doing just now?"

Adrasteia set her shoulders defiantly

"I was getting information," she said.

Themistocles turned to face her for the first time, his head cocked slightly to one side.

"Information?" he said disbelievingly.

"They're lying about the reason they came to meet us," Adrasteia said, her voice lowered conspiratorially. "They're not here to protect us from bandits. There likely aren't even any bandits around here, and even if there are, they certainly didn't attack this town."

Themistocles reached up and squeezed the bridge of his nose tightly, as if he had a sudden headache.

"Of course they were lying," he groaned softly at her as if he were lecturing a particularly dim witted child. "Bandits don't operate along major trade routes and they certainly don't attack hub towns like Tryxis. If they did, they'd be all but asking for some local city state or land holder to send an army or mercenary band after them. More to the point; if you do happen to be a bandit, and you just so happen to want to keep your head on your shoulders where it should be, you certainly don't operate within a thousand leagues of Sparta."

"But if all of that's true and there are no bandits to threaten us, aren't you in the least bit curious as to what really happened here?" Adrasteia protested, motioning toward one of the burned out husks that had once been some kind of town-house.

Themistocles leaned in close to her, his voice suddenly low and dangerous.

"Learn to read between the lines!" he hissed angrily. "If you do, maybe we might just make it out of here alive. Whatever it is that happened here is clearly the reason this escort was sent in the first place! Demosthenes obviously wants one eye kept on us to make sure we don't see or do more than what he wants us to. If you start marching around like a bull in a potters yard, asking your bare faced questions all guileless and innocent, these men will clam up tight, and all you'll have succeeded in doing is arousing their suspicions." He leaned back in his saddle, his steady gaze still fixed on her. "If you do that, you put all of us in danger. I for one would rather not have my throat cut while I sleep and, I imagine, neither would you."

Adrasteia gave a slight swallow and nodded. She was beginning to see exactly why it was that Themistocles had been so successful as an Archon in Athens. After less than a half hour ashore, he already seemed to have a better handle on the situation than she did. Maybe it would pay to listen to him more closely in the future.

"Alright," she said. "But we _do_ need more information. If your read of all this is correct, then whatever it is that's actually going on out here has Demosthenes worried, and if that's the case, then maybe it's something we can use against him."

Themistocles gave her a slight smile.

"At least you catch on quick," he said. "Yes, we do need to know more, but we're not going to learn it by blundering about asking inappropriate questions to the first Spartans we come across."

His face straightened and he glanced cautiously at the column of soldiers up ahead of them.

"Soon we'll be in a city full of them," he reminded her with a nod toward the soldiers, "so keep your wits about you and learn to watch and listen. Do enough of that, and maybe, just maybe the mists will start to clear, and we'll begin to get a clearer picture of what's really been going on around here."

"And if we do manage to learn the truth?" Adrasteia asked quietly. "What do we do then?"

"Pray to whichever god you think will listen that we make it out of here alive," Themistocles replied.


End file.
